


59 Hours (Take Your Time)

by softieghost



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Otabek Altin, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Blow Jobs, Fail sex, First Time, Future Fic, Getting Together, Homophobia (minor), I've been writing this off an on for six months and I'm really proud of myself!!, M/M, Multimedia, Music, Mutual Pining, Non-Chronological, Not yet though, Playlist, Recreational Drug Use (minor), Road Trips, Slow Burn, Tags to be added, accidental dick pics, finished fic, frustrated masturbating, it's all written and ready to go, oral sex as metaphor, rating to go up, story told out of order (kinda), you know how it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-04-13 19:45:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14119560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softieghost/pseuds/softieghost
Summary: Otabek was no stranger to being on his own. He had always prided himself on being independent, but as he drove on and on he felt small on the road. He wished he could have someone with him, someone to put their arms around him and talk to him as they counted down the hours until he hit Saint Petersburg.Ahead of him there were no signs, no guides, not even a building to tell him he was still in the right country. His GPS showed nothing but a purple line cutting through an empty green expanse. Stay on P354 for 544 kilometers.---Otabek spends a year not thinking about his feelings, and then just one short week of driving sorting his heart out.---Chapter Twelve:Sometimes, finding the rhythm was hard for them. But when they both had their guard down they met on a stable plane.





	1. Karaganda (12.5 Hours)

Otabek awoke at just past dawn in his parent’s home for the first time in four years. The room he was in, his childhood bedroom turned mother’s office, was cold and plain. It no longer has any of his own belongings in it, save a glass case in the corner that contained his Juniors medals - all the best parts of him settled neatly on shelves, all with matching photos and other souvenirs.

He had fought tooth and nail to be able to return to his own country to train. All he had wanted during his last few months in Canada had been to sleep in his own bed, in Almaty, one last time. Now, sitting on an air mattress next to his mother’s desk, he felt almost nothing. 

In the kitchen he made himself breakfast and coffee, wincing as he accidentally slammed a cabinet shut in the dead quiet of the morning. 

“Good one,” he mumbled to himself. 

With his plate and mug in hand he studied the stood-up and dusty picture frames on the bookcase in the living room. His eyes burned from too little sleep but he couldn’t look away, even though he wanted to close his eyes in the dim morning light filtering through the windows. 

There was Dasha, the day she was born prematurely, small and screaming right next to a wedding frame for his mother and father. There was Aidana, on her first day of university. There was Aylin when his parents officially adopted her. There was himself, with one of his first Junior’s medals. A lot of the pictures on the shelf were of himself, crowded in next to five other people. 

His photos, his awards, and his trophies had always dominated the house. When he won them in America, and then in Canada, he sent them home because he thought that was a good way to honor his family who supported his dream - send them the medals as his career was only possible because of them. When he returned to Kazakhstan at seventeen, though, he realized that his medals had become a stand in for his presence in their home. Instead of a living, breathing son around to help with chores or taking care of Aylin when she was small they had a glass case full of bronze, silver, and gold. 

He held his Senior medals in his own apartment now but he wasn’t sure that was the better option. 

He left his childhood home quietly, without waking anyone, and pushed his bike into the street a ways before keying the ignition, hoping he wouldn’t disturb his family. His bike roared to life and he was off parallel to the rising sun, heading towards Russia and facing Yuri alone. 

_ “Well Altin, now’s your chance to start thinking about it,”  _ he muttered to himself as identical white suburb houses flashed by him on his way to the highway. “ _ Now’s your goddamned chance.”  _

For all that he had left to decide, what he did know was that his feelings for Yuri were amorphous, a cloud that lived inside of him. He didn’t have a name for them, a way to package it all up as  _ eros _ or  _ agape.  _ All he knew was that he felt weighed down when he was flying through the air during an element or when he boarded a plane to see his best friend. He was prepared, in some ways, for when his feelings came flooding out of his mouth. He had begun to wonder in the last year if that would be the better choice, to out himself. But the last season had come, and all thoughts of anything aside from quad-salchow-triple-toe-flying-sit-spin had being purged from his mind. 

_ "Maybe it had been that moment in the dance studio _ ," he wondered. _  "Maybe it didn’t matter." _

Of course, the problem with being pushed so hard by someone else, no matter how he felt for him, was that Otabek rarely found the time to think anymore. If he wasn’t at the rink he was in the gym, and if he wasn’t there he was at his yoga class (he still refused ballet), or he was in university lectures even during the blazing hot summer, and in his last free moments he would see his family sometimes. He tried to go to mosque once in awhile, too, if only for the nostalgia. This wasn't even to mention late nights at the three or four clubs in Almaty that split his time. 

His weeks were packed and planned down to the last minute more often than not. He lost track of time sometimes. He would wake up and find himself in places and not remember how he got there. He would walk around in a haze, guided only by the planner he had stuffed in his gym bag, and even with that he forgot appointments and meetings. Life had come at him fast, and it kept coming for the entire last season, not slowing down until it halted underneath him. One day on-season, the next day off. 

So as nine months of backlogged thoughts came flying at him the second he drove off, he braced himself. He’d had a lot of time to create problems for himself and now, in one week on the back of his Bonneville, on black tar roads through the steppe and the city, he figured he’d better deal with them. 

 

* * *

 

_ where the fuck are you  _ read his text from Yuri. He’d been driving for nearly five hours now, so at 10am outside of Almaty it was 7am in the heart of St. Petersburg. He didn’t want to dwell on the idea that Yuri had texted him as soon as he woke up and what that might mean but the thoughts clung to him like his jacket.

His pause in his journey was an unplanned stop but he wanted coffee even though he’d already had some, bitter and black, before he left his parent’s house in the morning. Otabek stretched his stiff legs as he got off of his bike and walked into the tiny shop that he’d found in a small, no-name lakeside town. His joints cracked as he walked but that was something that happened a lot these days, even when he hadn’t been driving for hours. 

_ Just hitting Lake Balkhash. Almost half-way through today _ . He sent back as he paced, trying to shake pins and needles from his knees. His total trip from Almaty to Karaganda was set to take twelve and a half hours so getting stiff and cranky now was a bad idea. The real time, though, was seven days between his city and Yuri’s. 

_ send me a pic  _ Yuri texted. 

Otabek looked around himself, trying to see if there was a good view of the flat, dim waters of the lake or the grey and cloudy sky. The horizon was barely discernible in the morning fog and everything felt bleary. The small coastal town he had stopped in offered not much else aside from a gas station, a tiny inn, and a weedy, pebbled beach. All in all it was nice, as most things in Kazakhstan were nice, but he knew it wasn't the kind of thing Yuri was looking for - Yuri only cared about the best of the best, the most cool, the most fashionable things available and this slow and gravely town was far from the best Kazakhstan had to offer. 

Otabek tucked his phone back into his pocket, choosing not to respond. Yuri was probably in the shower now anyway, soapy, blonde hair wet and - nope.

_ "You're getting ahead of yourself _ ."

The woman at the counter in the single store in town looked asleep at the counter as he paid for coffee. Her head was resting in her hand, cheek fat pushed up so her right eye was more closed than open. She ran the register with her other hand alone and the bell tinkled above the door as he left. 

_ "Yuri would have liked her. Good character." _

Shaking his head at himself and warm cup in hand Otabek sat back down on his bike, which sank ever so slightly under his weight. In a few hours he would hit Saryshaghan, his first scheduled stop and then he would go on to Balkhash, the city proper. In between here and there he knew he could find a good view of the beach or the deep forest that surrounded the lake. The sun would rise higher above him and the fog would lift, like it always did, and that would be that. 

Otabek sat on his bike, cool and comfortable in the parking lot as he drank his coffee with too much sugar in it, looking out over the road and town he was in. Small houses and business dotted the edge of the lake. The sun filtered in through the trees and warmed the leather jacket he was wearing. Otabek sighed at the bittersweet feeling on his tongue in the morning air before crumpling up his cardboard coffee cup and tossing it in the trash. 

He loved his country dearly. Even though he was headed towards Yuri there was a large part of him that never wanted to leave. 

As he drove onwards the hum of his bike and the slow grind sound of the road passing underneath him melded together in his brain, mixed with the steady beat of his music. He hummed along as his drive went on and on and on towards his destination, towards the horizon, towards the never-ending road. 

With the lake to his right and the occasional town or park to his left he was able to see the haze of beauty that lived within Kazakhstan. The sun glittered on the lake’s surface while the dense forest to his right was dark and earthy even in the morning light. As he pushed northwards Lake Balkhash looked even more blue when contrasted with the dark black highway and the towns and lone trees that skirted it’s shore until it was competing for attention with the sky itself. There were no hard and fast borders in Kazakhstan - everything rolled together, blurred, and misty. 

In the meandering landscape it was easy to get lost in thought, especially as his playlists cycled through. He’d mixed them for driving, months before he left, before he was sure he was going to take the trip to begin with. His mom had poked fun at him, laughing at her young son who worked like an old man - taking a long time to make any and all decisions, even the ones that didn’t seem important. 

This was important though, at least to him. He’d spent the better part of the last year staunchly ignoring all the things he should have been paying attention to. 

_ How am I going to tell Yuri how I feel if I can't even say the words to myself? _

Scenery flickered by as he thought about Yuri and the trip he was taking and the reasons for it all. Town after town, road after road, the lake the only constant on his right and the whole time he thought about Yuri being with him, by his side. 

_ Maybe after all this we can ride together. If he wants to. _

Tree after tree, road after road, and town after town slid past him. He began to feel heavy in his seat on his bike and hungry, too. There was an airport in Karaganda, his final destination for the evening. He could get on a plane and avoid driving for six more days, all the way to Saint Petersburg. He could do that and see Yuri even sooner if he wanted. But he wasn’t ready yet, there was still too much to do. 

Saryshaghan, a town barely larger than the one he stopped in earlier in the day, was seven hours from Almaty and he stopped there for lunch, as planned. His back hurt from the position he was forced to sit in on the bike and his stomach had been growling at him for the last one hundred kilometers so he was glad for his break. 

He headed towards a diner he could remember eating in as a kid. He was surprised at how much of the town was familiar to him even though he hadn’t visited it in many years. 

Otabek breathed in the cool air as he stood outside of the diner. It’s door was propped open in the nice weather just like it had been when he was a kid. Inside was quiet and empty even though there should have been people in every booth eating lunch with him. Instead the only people inside were tired looking waitresses and a kid at the front counter running an old register and blowing bubbles with his gum. Otabek got the feeling that not much of anything happened in this town these days. Still, the feeling of nostalgia crept up on him and he couldn’t help but remember sitting in the fake-leather booth seats across from Father and next to his sisters as they ate lunch on their way northward every summer. It felt wrong to be in this diner by himself, so he texted Yuri in the meantime. 

_ Finally stopped for lunch. _

While Otabek waited for Yuri to answer (“ _ Probably going to have his break soon _ .” He thought to himself) he ordered - all breakfast food, flatbread and warm, greasy sausage. The joy of the off season was having to just look over his meal plan and not memorize it. 

_ fucking bring me some  _ Yuri texted back. 

_ Don’t know if it’ll last that long but I’ll get a box for you.  _ Otabek responded, typing one handed while continuing to eat. 

_ asshole _

_ :) _

In his fantasies Yuri was always with him. His chest tightened as he looked at the empty chair across from him and he ate in silence. Yuri always talked with his mouth full but he also always said something funny so it was worth it most of the time. If he tried he’d be able to lean back and hear Yuri with him, now, as opposed to nothing but the low hum of a fan and the clinking of silverware on cheap ceramic plates. 

In his fantasies he didn’t have to talk about it. His feelings could simply be between them, comfortable and lived in like the house he wanted to share, but he knew that, unfortunately and awkwardly, they needed to have an honest-to-god conversation about the heavy tension Otabek knew he was causing. Or, maybe, just Otabek needed to talk about it. He could feel the words bubbling inside of him as he sat alone in the diner. He could just text Yuri. He could do it now. 

_ "Do you feel it too?" _

_ "Do you want to make it more?" _

_ "Do you look at me the way I look at you, like the goddamned Sun exists within you?" _

But he knew he shouldn’t. It was the kind of thing he wanted to talk about face to face if he ever worked up the courage to actually do so. He knew that despite his drive he may very well chicken out at the last moment. The idea of standing in front of Yuri, who had been three or four inches taller than him for nearly two years now, and letting the words pour out of his mouth made his stomach hurt. He knew Yuri would give him that look, the one that was more than just pointed - the one that was so needle sharp it could get under Otabek’s nails. It was the look he had on his face when Otabek said something Yuri deemed stupid, or when Viktor spent all day fawning over Yuuri, or when Potya caught a mouse inside his apartment. That look, the one that made him tremble and quease. The one that was almost terrifying. 

So he forgave himself the time he spent avoiding the issue. He wasn’t brave enough back when he first realized and he wasn’t sure he was brave enough now to say anything still, except the feelings inside of him had grown from spark to ember to fire to a raging, burning mess that threatened to leave behind nothing but the charred body he lived in. He was suffering not knowing how Yuri felt about him. He was hungry. He wanted to take what he needed. But he was scared. 

Otabek’s phone chirped again, making him drop his fork with a clatter. 

_ You still haven't sent me a damn picture of the view.  _ Yuri sent.

_ I know _ .

He was scared and still he got back on his bike and peeled away from Saryshaghan, stomach full and heart clenching in the noon sun that hung directly above him. 

Otabek drove past more and more picturesque beaches as he went northwards, wind whirling around him and making the tiny slivers of skin exposed at his wrists, where his gloves refused to meet his jacket, feel cold and dry and rough even though the weather was warm. He wanted to stop and rub at his chapped skin but he hadn’t the time, not when he still had five hours of driving to do. His head began to hurt at the thought of being hunched over his bike for so much longer.

The time between Saryshaghan and Balkhash stretched on like the road did, curved so slightly it was hard to notice the change in direction until he was driving almost perfectly eastward instead of north. The road just kept going no matter how long he drove. There was always a few more kilometers in front of him. The GPS clipped to his bike was the only thing that registered the difference in time and direction because everything around him looked the same - lake to his right, forest on his left, sun high above him. 

_ I could teach him to drive in Russia.  _ Otabek thought to himself as another biker passed him.  _ I could show him how to do this.  _ Then they would be able to go wherever they wanted together, no matter the country once Yuri was old enough to rent a bike. In the meantime he could ship his own bike when he wanted to and they could take it out in any city imaginable - Vancouver, Tokyo, Paris, London, Barcelona. 

_ Yeah,  _ he thought, _ we should go to Barcelona together again. _

Or, perhaps, they could drive around Almaty. They’d go to his parent’s house all the time because his family loved Yuri and Yuri loved them back - he thought Aidana was hilarious and he always managed to rile Aylin up. Even Dasha liked Yuri. More surprisingly, even Father liked Yuri. Or they could drive down to the Russian markets so Yuri could make blini and borscht and pirozhki for dinner. Or they could do anything, really, in Almaty.

 

* * *

 

“No, see, you gotta frame it right.” Yuri says, taking Otabek’s phone out of his hands and angling the camera up so the shot of the fireworks above them looks better. As soon as the next burst went off he hits the round camera button a couple of times, grabbing a few shots in rapid succession before flipping through them with a practiced and harsh gaze. He saw flaws immediately and without remorse. Otabek had only met Lilia Baranovskaya once but he was already able to see her influence in Yuri. 

“Here. This one.” Yuri hands Otabek his phone back. A shot of the fireworks, shaded differently through filters, is half-posted to his Instagram already. All Otabek has to do is add a caption and hit send and his rarely-used profile will be updated for the first time in nearly a month. Something, though, holds him back. His phone feels heavy and a strange pressure is ghosting along his knuckles, holding his fingers in place. He just can’t make his move. 

It is his first time visiting Yuri, who has just turned sixteen. Their friendship still feels new in places - stiff like fresh sheets that hadn’t been slept in yet. Other parts, though, are easy - their inside jokes and banter feel as natural here as they do on screens and through video calls. It is an awkward line to try and cross, knowing an exact string of words to make Yuri cry with laughter but not knowing if he minds being touched, even in a friendly way. So much of their relationship is just looks and words and feelings, intangible things, that standing close to Yuri for the first time in months makes him feel electric and uncomfortable, like an overheating phone. 

Yuri notices his pause and grabs his phone again. 

“God, let me do it.” Yuri doesn’t pause for anything. 

An image of fireworks, green and gold against the night sky, is posted to his Instagram without his help. It’s captioned _ first time in russia #bestfriends  _ and is completely unlike anything he has ever posted before. 

 

* * *

 

As he looked out at the road in front of him, black and never ending, the song playing through his bluetooth intercom  started with the sound of a tape deck flipping over. The digital rendering of the sound of plastic startled him for a moment, as he had been lost in thought. What had he been thinking of? He couldn’t remember now.

 

* * *

 

Karaganda existed on the edge of the Kazakh Steppe so the land slowly evened out away from the road as he drove towards the city. The tops of skyscrapers peeked past the horizon as Otabek went northwards and into the wind while the sun set on the other side of him. It burned on his left, hot and steady on his leather jacket. 

Reaching the city made him slow for traffic even though he could have probably zipped through and around the cars on the road but he was too tired to focus on driving recklessly. His eyes wanted to close and his shoulders felt hot from being so tight. Being stuck in a line of slow, humming cars made him want to stop right there and sleep. He wanted to lay down and sleep forever. He couldn’t, though, because the next day he had to drive to Astana and see Aunt Anna and Uncle Michael and his two younger cousins. 

Otabek clenched his jaw tight in his helmet. 

Otabek entered Karaganda with a scowl on his face.

The city was loud and crowded in the evening and the stop-and-go traffic was making his head hurt. He pulled up to red light after red light, never seeming to be able to hit green. His GPS told him his projected arrival time was later and later by every minute that ticked by. Otabek frowned deeper, groaning to himself aloud and turning his music off. He needed one less thing to think about as his mind swirled and he looked for his hotel. 

_ “Thank god this was the longest day.” _

His hotel was in the city center and they overcharged him for parking his bike but he didn’t have the energy to argue. He felt dead on his feet as he walked up to his room on the second floor, tugging his two small bags along with him. More than ever he was glad he’d sent his clothes ahead of him to Yuri’s apartment and needed only the essentials for hotel-room living. 

His room was small but clean and for that he was grateful. He dumped his bags on the floor with a soft thud and turned to the bathroom, running a hot bath in silence. He’d been to the Katsuki’s onsen once before, for the wedding, and what he would have given to sit on the hot springs once again instead of a too-small and not-hot-enough tub. 

With his knees drawn up and nothing but the sound of his breathing echoing off the tiled walls he sat and tried to relax. His eyes burned and his back hurt, though, so it didn’t work very well. He felt restless and exhausted at the same time, eyes closing on their own but heart racing in his chest. 

Otabek’s phone chirped. _ you never sent me a picture of the lake  _

He flipped his phone over so he couldn’t see the screen. His head hit the tiles behind him and he sighed. 


	2. Astana (3.5 Hours)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek visits family, but they're not the only people he sees.

“This is your wakeup call.” a distorted, female voice said through the speaker on the phone next to Otabek’s bed. He hung up without responding. He already had a headache forming in the front of his brain, where his brows met. 

He had managed to sweat through the sheets in his sleep. 

In the shower he closed his eyes against the cool water and thought about breakfast and driving and what he would say to Aunt Anna and Uncle Michael when he saw them in a few hours. He hadn't seen them in a long time. 

The sun pressed down on Otabek as he peeled out of the hotel parking lot. It was almost unbearably hot. His bike roared out into the empty earth and he drove north.  

 

* * *

 

“Come in, come in!” Aunt Anna said as she hugged him tight after he got off of his bike, stiff even though the drive from Karaganda had only been three hours long. She tucked him under her arm (an impressive feat for a woman shorter than him) and walked them awkwardly over to the house where Uncle Michael and his two cousins were waiting in the doorway. 

The last time he had seen the four of them had been a year ago, after the Olympics, when his family threw a party in his honor. His cousins, fourteen and sixteen respectively now, had been shorter but now both of them had at least four centimeters on him. Uncle Michael looked like he had more grey hairs. Aunt Anna looked the same - permanently smiling and cheerful, no matter what was happening in their lives. He liked that about her even though he hated that quality in his own mother. He supposed it was different, though. 

“Drop your bags off and then we’re going to hit the road!” Anna said as she steered him into a bedroom that clearly belonged to one of her sons. “The boys are sharing tonight, so you’ll be in here.” 

Otabek carefully placed his bags on the end of the bed, not wanting to disturb the peace of the room, and looked around. There were posters of girls and muscle cars on the walls and a few polished trophies were displayed on the top of a bookshelf that had more video games and souvenirs than books. A hockey stick and some pads were thrown in the corner, along with a pair of boxing gloves. The room smelled like cleaning products and skate polish. It reminded him of the room he shared with JJ back in Canada. 

Anna picked the hockey stick and gloves up and quickly shoved them in the closet, closing the door behind her with a harried smile on her face. 

“Where are we going?” Otabek asked as Anna turned her face back to him. He shifted from one foot to the other, awkward. 

“Football!” Anna’s smile was real again as she said this. “But first let’s make lunch.” 

She bustled out of the room, large hips swaying, while Otabek followed her to what he presumed was the kitchen. His headache from the morning was creeping back. He wasn’t a fan of football. 

 

* * *

 

“Why did you decide to move to Kazakhstan?” Otabek asked, chopping vegetables next to Uncle Michael. The knife slipped through the carrots easily but he worked slowly, taking care not to cut his fingers. The action felt foreign to him as it had been a long time since he had made a full meal on his own. 

Uncle Michael lifted an eyebrow at him. “You’ve lived in a couple countries haven’t you? You should know the answer already.” His accent was gentle, like he could have lost it if he wanted to. Maybe he held onto the way his English tongue slipped around Kazakh out of spite. 

“I’ve never stayed.” The carrots were shoved over on the cutting board, making room for bloody, half-frozen meat. 

“I can be a selfish person. It happened to work out for everyone involved, but I think I’d have done it regardless.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled at his hands. Even though Uncle Michael was facing away from Otabek, his voice was so fond as he spoke of Aunt Anna that Otabek could picture the expression on his face. Dreamy. 

Otabek stared down at his hands, covered in slime from the defrosting meat in front of him. 

“What made you know?” 

“She made the decision for me.” Uncle Michael was looking at him now, his hands still on the counter. He made Otabek feel like he was being looked through. 

 

* * *

 

The car they took to the stadium was small and rattled ominously. The paint was rusted away near the left taillight. Otabek would have offered to look at it if he wasn’t crammed in the backseat between his two young cousins, both of whom refused the “bitch seat” and then got yelled at by their mother for using such foul language. Otabek had smiled, reminded a little bit of Yuri’s teenage brashness. 

“Otabek, are you going to the Olympics again?” Taras asked from his right. He was fourteen and cackled at everything.

“That’s not for another three years, idiot.” Daniar, sixteen and loud, responded from Otabek’s left. Otabek was sleeping in Daniar’s room, it turned out, and the hockey stick and boxing gloves made a lot more sense the longer he sat next to him. If Taras had Yuri’s brashness, Daniar had his anger. 

“I was just asking, jeez.” Taras responded with an undignified mutter, crossing his arms. His straight black hair fell in his face and he tried to huff it away with a puff of breath, which didn’t work. Strands fluttered around his face for a split second and Otabek had to stifle laughter at the sight. 

The rest of the car ride continued like that. Small, brotherly fights happened over Otabek, making him feel too big (for once in his life) especially with his knees knocking together and his shoulders tight so he didn’t bump into his cousins as they moved around him like stray cats swatting at each other. When Aunt Anna added her ring bejeweled hand to the fray, trying to separate her sons, he had to move left and right so he didn’t get accidently smacked by her either. 

The fighting only stopped as they pulled into the stadium parking lot, already stuffed with cars and daydrunk fans with their faces painted. Sliding out of the door he moved from the relative quiet of the drive to a sudden burst of noise and excitement that he couldn’t control. It felt like when he took shots and pulled his headphones off at the club. Jarring, to say the least. 

The stadium was crowded and loud. People jostled him left and right as they made their way through the lines and up into their seats, which made him feel uneasy. Otabek wasn't one for crowds.

Popcorn crunched under his motorcycle boots and the warm plastic of the stadium seat he was now sitting in hurt his back but he was grateful, at least, to have the excuse of noise and commotion of the game to not participate in the family conversation that happened around him. Even though he loved them he felt the gulf of time and distance in between himself and his family. He had never been sure how to cross it. How was he supposed to interact with people he loved but didn’t know? How was he supposed to relate to people who had never left the city?

As he settled down, once again between his cousins, he pulled his boots off of the mysteriously sticky concrete and looked across the field to the scoreboard and startled, eyes going wide for a second behind his sunglasses. 

Familiar green eyes, framed by blonde brows and hair looked back at him from the billboard above the blinking LED lights of the scoreboard. The photo was decorated only with the word  _ determination _ and the logo for a sports apparel company. Yuri’s glare, tight and glittering, made something close to acid drop in Otabek’s stomach. For a moment the violently loud stadium ceased to exist. There was only himself and Yuri’s eyes, alone. 

The crowd surged and screamed around Otabek as the teams took the pitch, jolting him out of his own head. Eleven men in yellow and eleven in white stood on either side of a referee, whistle already in his mouth. With a shriek he dropped the ball and the team in yellow was off, powering through the men in white with little obvious effort. The way they moved around the pitch seemed unplanned and unorganized to Otabek, who struggled to track the ball as it sped right and left between the two teams. 

Yuri continued to watch him from the billboard as Otabek tried to follow the match. His phone felt heavy and hot in his lap, even through his black jeans. He could reach out, say hi. It’d be easy. 

Only a few minutes in, the game halted at the sound of the referee’s whistle. The players stopped and hustled back a few steps while one of them took the ball to the side. The man at the sideline, all in grass-stained white, punted the ball into the field and the game resumed as it had been before the penalty. Otabek squinted at the field from behind his black sunglasses, confused. The whole thing seemed pointless. 

_ “I wasted yesterday.”  _ Otabek thought to himself. He squirmed in his stadium seat, uncomfortable.  _ “Planned a whole trip to work it out and wasted the longest day. Good fucking job.” _

The game stopped again. Another man in white and dirt stood on the side and kicked the ball back into the pitch. A player in yellow took it out of the sky and ran with it down the field, making all the other men change direction with him. 

“This game is fucking bullshit. Astana should be kicking their asses at this point but it’s like no one can make a damn move.” Daniar muttered at Otabek’s side. He had his legs kicked up on the empty seat in front of him and was gesturing at the field as he spoke half to himself. 

Daniar side-eyed Otabek. “Right?”

“Yeah, right.” Otabek agreed, more out of fear that Daniar would lecture him about the politics of football than any real opinion on team rank and skill.

“Do you even know what the fuck I’m talking about?” Daniar was looking at him full in the face. His scowl was practiced - intimidating and childish all at once. 

“Not really. I’m more into boxing if anything else.” Otabek said with a shrug, looking back at the pitch and picking up his phone from his lap in hopes Daniar wouldn’t press him further when he looked distracted. He lifted his phone in front of his face for good measure and snapped a picture of Yuri’s billboard, angling the photo so there was nothing but his eyes in the frame. 

_ You ever read The Great Gatsby?  _ He typed and sent the picture whizzing off to Yuri, deep in the Saint Petersburg streets.

What he wanted to ask was more along the lines of  _ “Do you know how this picture makes me feel?”  _ It wouldn’t be a rhetorical question, either. Maybe Yuri would be able to give him some actual answers. All he knew is that Yuri dominated his thoughts more often than not, lately. He was always there with some quip or complaint, some story, a picture of Potya, constantly and always there in the phone in his hand or in his computer screen or, every once in awhile, in his bedroom.  _ “What do you feel, Yuri? Give me a fucking answer.” _

Once, when he trained with Leo down in Colorado Springs, Otabek got really sick. He could still remember how he couldn’t eat anything, how he was tired all the time, and how no matter what he did he couldn’t feel any better. His coach had to take him to the hospital eventually, after he fell over on the ice and couldn’t get up afterwards. Staring at the billboard he felt like he did the moment before he hit the ice - woozy, but suddenly clear - he was going to fall. There was nothing he could do to stop it. 

_ “Can I change my feelings for him at this point?” _

Once, in Canada, Otabek got caught with a lit cigarette in his mouth by Jean-Jacques Leroy. They weren’t quite friends at that point and Otabek was in the passenger seat of a rink employee’s beater listening to a shitty mixtape his friend had made. The other boy had his hand on Otabek’s thigh. Jean hauled him out of the car and said he wouldn’t tell their coaches - Jean’s parents - if he promised not to do it again. Otabek wasn’t sure if he had been talking about the cigarette or the boy but he agreed either way. He felt a little like that, too. Caught out and exposed sitting under the open blue sky and watchful gaze of his best-friend-maybe-crush-something-something-something. 

Otabek took a sip of his beer, grimacing at it. He wasn’t that much of a drinker, a by-product of being an athlete and being raised by his observant father, but he had always preferred liquor to beer. And never in the middle of the day under the hot sun. Otabek’s phone chirped at him as he drank the beer in his hand. 

_ ha ha very funny, asshole. hows the game?  _ Yuri had finally responded to him. 

_ I don’t know the rules. But it’s 0-0 if you’re wondering.  _

Seeing the three dots pop up on his phone that indicated Yuri was typing made Otabek’s stomach turn. That had been happening to him a lot lately. He clutched his phone even though the sun’s glare and various smudged from his fingers made it hard to read. Yuri typed, stopped, and typed again. He was probably backspacing and retyping his insults to Otabek for not knowing the rules to football. 

As he waited for Yuri to figure out the best way to make him feel stupid, the team in yellow - FC Astana, apparently, ran the ball up the field, passing it between players with ease and drove it into the net. The referee’s whistle sounded and half the stadium erupted with cheers so loud Otabek’s head began to hurt. The man behind him spilled a few drops of beer onto him and yelled a chant that Otabek couldn’t quite follow. The noise was so much he couldn’t make heads or tails of who was screaming in celebration and who in protest. 

Yuri’s response came through. _ omfg.  _ Only Yuri could pack so much feeling into four letters. 

Otabek wanted to call him right there and ask -  _ “Why do I not care when you make me feel stupid? Why can you get away with it? Why can’t I just fucking name it?”  _ Instead, he flipped his phone over so he couldn’t see the screen and watched the two teams on the pitch reorganize themselves into their starting positions. The referee dropped the ball and the game started again, this time 1-0. 

_ “Well, I’ve never had a friendship like this. Isn’t it to be expected I feel differently for him than I do for anyone else?” _

Otabek could almost hear JJ and Leo laughing at him for that kind of pitiful excuse. Although the three of them had only skated together for a single summer in Detroit they had become good friends. They had picked on Otabek for being obtuse even back then. When he had wanted to ask out another of their rinkmates - the reigning Ladies champion - he had needed them to literally push him into her vicinity. He had been alone with her in the rink’s tiny kitchen and he had stumbled over his words, hand on the back of his head as he embarrassed himself trying to get her attention. 

JJ and Leo bought him dinner that night after he announced his rejection. 

“Maybe if you had made it more obvious…?” Leo had tried. “Maybe you just weren’t clear?” 

No, Otabek had wanted to say, it didn’t matter how badly he stumbled over his words because she definitely got it. 

A cheer from the crowd went up around him, bringing his attention to the present again. The team in white had scored while he had been daydreaming. Not much of a loss though, he figured, as he wasn’t particularly invested in either team. 

The halftime break followed quickly and during it Uncle Michael very kindly bought him another beer even though his stomach was already feeling sloshy. Sitting in the heat and drinking wasn’t playing out to be a good idea on his part but he wasn’t going to deny his family’s good graces, not when they were housing him for a night. The less time in hotels, Otabek thought, the better. 

_ Do you follow football?  _ He texted to Yuri, feeling a bit like he was reaching out into the void as he had no clue what he was going to get in return. They’d been friends for five years. He should probably already know the answer. 

_ its my guilty pleasure. i looked up your match - astana is gonna kick okzhetepes ass btw.  _

Otabek swallowed. 

_ You’re not guilty about much.  _ He tried, hoping Yuri would think he was clever or something. Yuri couldn’t always the one with the better retorts. 

_ cant let anyone know i cheat on skating on the reg  _ his response came in fast. Otabek hadn’t even noticed the little dots that indicated him typing this time around. 

_ I cheat too and they still call me hero. Don’t worry about it.  _

_ thanks bro _

The team in white (Okzhetepes?) scored while Otabek wasn’t paying attention again. He lifted his eyes from his phone, eyeing the little ‘bro’ with trepidation, and watched the other side of the stadium, full of fans in white and blue, stand and cheer. The score was 1-2 now, and the clock was stopped. The players rearranged themselves again, waiting for time to pick up while Otabek waited for something that wasn’t white static fuzz to pop up in his brain to send to Yuri. Thanks bro. 

Otabek downed the rest of his beer as the teams fought over the ball again. It shot from player to player, bouncing down the field to the left and to the right, never getting close to a net. The goalkeepers on either end stood in mirroring positions - hand on their hips, heads back, just watching and waiting for something to come their way, for someone to make a move as Daniar had said at the start of the match. Otabek tracked the ball, trying to ignore his phone in his hand. 

 

* * *

 

“Why are you driving the whole way there?” Dasha asks, breaking the silence. 

Otabek’s sitting on the couch in his parent’s living room the day before he starts his week-long drive. They’ve had dinner already - pilaf and kazy and a few glasses of wine on his mom’s part - and the family has disbursed through the house again. Father’s sitting in his office, typing away at his ancient computer that he refuses to replace because it “works just fine”. Mama is grading her student’s papers in her own office.

Dasha has big, watery eyes. She always looks like she’s crying, especially behind the glasses she wears that make her eyes as big and round as a bug’s. She cocks her head to the side at him and hugs her knees closer to her body. She’s probably cold, like usual. Her body is small and thin and although the doctors keep saying nothing is wrong with her she spends more time being tired than happy these days. 

“I’ve always wanted to.” It’s not a lie and the statement comes out easily - he’s been practicing it. 

Dasha turns her head even further to the side, looking at him fully through her blue rimmed glasses. Her hair falls in her face that way and she brushes it aside with her tiny hand. 

“Mama will come around, you know. About you and him.”

“There is no me and him.” There have been rumors, posted online on forums and twitter threads and instagram comments about them for years. This statement is nothing new to Otabek but for the first time in his life he feels like he’s lying to his sister. 

Dasha turns her head back to the TV, which they had both been pretending to watch for a while. When Otabek still lived in this house he would sit on the couch and pretend to watch TV with Dasha a lot, both of them waiting to make some kind of revelation about the day. It was usually Dasha who did so, saying things like “Mama and Father fought again today.” Sometimes, less often, it was Otabek saying “I’m moving to America.”

With her hands running through her long black hair Dasha smiled at the news. 

“That’s what you think.” 

 

* * *

 

Astana scored twice in rapid succession. The team’s players seemed to no longer care about the time on the scoreboard or how many goals their opponents were making. The ran the ball hard and fast, shoving it past the opposition and defense without a care in the world. Each time the whistle blew Otabek winced - his head hurt from the noise of the crowd and the heat and the beer that sloshed in his stomach as he moved. He was unhappy to say the least. 

Otabek’s phone beeped in his hand again. 

_ when you get up here in a fucking week (even though you could FLY and see me TOMORROW) ill teach you the rules. then we’ll be on even ground.  _

Otabek looked up from his phone only to be greeted by Yuri’s watchful gaze again from the billboard that hovered over the bright lights of the score. 3-2, Astana in the lead. He could fly out tomorrow, see Yuri by the end of the day if he wanted. He did want to. Very badly. His stomach hurt as he thought about it. 

Otabek looked billboard-Yuri straight in the eyes and made not a revelation but an admittance. 

_ “I think I might love you, Yuri.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, six months too late: football is not a summer sport. Hm.


	3. Petukhovo (7 Hours)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, I know - you’re that boy that hangs around Yuri Plisetsky, aren’t you? My daughter loves figure skating, always makes me buy those fucking magazines you lot are in.” 
> 
> Otabek looked up at the guard while rain dripped from his hair to his face. “That’s me.”

“You’re going where?” Yuri’s tired voice came through Otabek’s phone as he brushed his teeth in the bathroom of his Aunt and Uncle’s house. His phone teetered dangerously on the side of the tub. 

“Petukhovo. It’s barely inside Russia, but at least I’ll be in your country today,” he said, foam dripping from his mouth. 

Excitement fluttered inside Otabek’s stomach as he thought about crossing the border. Although he still had many days of driving ahead of him being able to say he was about to be in the same country as Yuri made him feel much closer to him than he had any right to feel. 

“I hope you get fucking murdered for staying in some backwoods town. It would serve you right. Plus less competition for me in the fall.” Otabek could hear the smile in Yuri’s voice as he rambled. 

“I’ll do my best.” 

Otabek spat, loudly, just to make Yuri groan on the other end of phone. 

“I’ll call you when I’m in Russia. Later, Yuri.” Otabek ended the call without waiting for Yuri to respond. He knew the little indignant grunt Yuri had just made at being hung up on, anyway. The idea of how Yuri’s cheeks got pouty when he huffed and puffed made Otabek smile - and then roll his eyes at himself in the mirror. 

_ “Dumbass.” _

Although the day was rainy Otabek’s mood was light when he was able to escape the motherly clutches of Aunt Anna in the driveway. She hugged him so tight he could feel his spine realigning in her arms. Uncle Michael grinned, something strange in his eyes, as Otabek pushed his kickstand up with his dirty boots. 

 

The drizzle made the road in front of him shiny and slick but he wasn’t about to lose seven hours of driving to wait and see if it would let up. He was itching to cross the border. Although he had said goodbye to Kazakhstan many times throughout the year there was only one time he looked forward to it. Every other summer, when he planned his trips to St. Petersburg, he couldn’t wait to leave. 

_ “ _ Yeah. You’re a dumbass _.”  _ He said to himself in his helmet, breath fogging the glass. “You took this long to admit it to yourself. Now what?”

The bike hummed underneath him, steady and unchanging. Otabek clicked up his music a few notches until it was on the far side of too loud. The beat pounded in his ears as the world flattened out. He was only set to skirt the edge of the Steppe proper but even here, many kilometers from it, the horizon seemed hours away. Nothing was standing in his way anymore, no hills, no trees, no buildings. Just clouds and grassland. 

Otabek gunned the engine, letting the sound of him driving fill the air around him. 

_ “If I tell him, what changes?” _

Looking around himself he felt small. The glittering skyline of Astana slowly faded in his mirrors, swallowed by the haze of rain and the kilometers he was putting between himself and where he had been. He felt small, dwarfed by the plains around him, and yet he smiled and sat up on his bike, letting the wind hit him. He drove fast, speeding past the occasional car on the empty highway. 

_ “If he hates it…” _

His bike, a customized and rebuilt Bonneville t120, purred underneath him. His seat warmer kept him from shivering in the drizzle that blurred his GPS. He’d bought the bike from his mechanic a year ago. It had sat in the back of the garage he frequented for the better part of six months before Otabek caved and purchased it for more than it was worth and started the steady process of fixing it. 

It hadn’t run - hadn’t even turned on at first. He’d had to replace almost every individual part just to find out what worked and what didn’t. For months he had shown up to the rink with rust and motor oil under his nails, smelling like concentrated cleaner and autobody air freshener as he’d worked through every possible combination of working and non-working parts. His coach hated it. Otabek loved it. 

The bike had become ‘parts’ and ‘functioning motorcycle’ a few times. It was torn apart and rebuilt regularly before Otabek had been happy with it. He’d sat in the driveway of his apartment complex, shirt off in the good summer weather, phone tucked into his pants pockets with Yuri talking to him through his headphones while he worked out exactly what was wrong with it. It had only been just before the start of the past season that he’d become satisfied. But as soon as he had one problem out of the way another problem emerged. He missed the evenings he’d had talking to Yuri on the phone, wrenches and spark plugs in hand, a little too much to brush aside as nostalgia or platonic longing any longer. 

The bike sat in his garage for a long time before he pulled it out again. Now, it drove smoothly underneath him as he drove to face his newest problem. 

_ “...will it change the way he sees me forever?” _

 

* * *

 

“Hi Mama.” Otabek says into the laptop in front of him. His mother’s face is pixelated on the screen. She moves like a video where every other frame is missing. 

“My boy! How are you? Are you having a nice sixteenth birthday?” Mama settles in the chair at her office desk with Father behind her. Otabek can tell she’s petting their dog in her lap from the way her hand moves at the bottom of the screen even though he can’t see the dog’s fluffy white fur. 

Otabek smiles at his mom and she smiles back, breaking into laughter as she looks at him. He knows she loves him very much. Anxiety bubbles up in his stomach the more he looks at her until he feels sick with it.

“Yes, Mama.” 

The Leroy’s had let him skip practice for the day even though the Junior Grand Prix Final was just around the corner. He’d had cake (with the frosting scraped off, mostly because he didn’t like it but partially for his diet) and played video games with Jean-Jacques, (who’d started asking everyone to call him JJ) when he got home from the rink. Most importantly, he’d just returned from some long-standing plans with a boy he’d met at school. 

“Are you nervous about the Final?” 

“Not really.” He lies, easily. He’s extremely nervous about the upcoming Final. He’d been to the Final the previous season and came a resounding fifth, but this year he’s doing so well in his qualifiers some fans kept insisting he could sweep the whole thing. That kind of pressure makes him feel like tearing his hair out. 

“Then why do you look so nervous, my boy?” 

Otabek bites his lip. He doesn’t want to talk anymore. 

He’s not sure, exactly, how his parents will react. He doubts they will disown him, or yell at him, but those images have been in the back of his mind for weeks. He’s sat under the Leroy’s cross at breakfast, eating the same food he always has, at the same time it always is, imagining the same argument over and over and over. 

“Um.” He waves his hands like he’s trying to be casual. 

Father leans into the laptop camera, allowing Otabek to see the subtle grey in his beard. Even though he’s separated from his parents by thousands of kilometers and computer screens he feels like they’re right in his face. He leans back a little, trying to make room to breathe. 

Otabek puts his hand on the back of his head. “I just got back from going out with some -”

“My son! A date! Oh, Otabek, what’s she like?” Mama has her face in the webcam so far that the only thing Otabek can see is her eye, flecked with pixels, peering at him. 

“Well. Um. I have to tell you something.” Otabek clasps his hands under the desk he’s sitting at. “Ah, it’s just. He’s a boy…”. The words are thick in his mouth, forcing him to spit them out. They fall out of him, heavy, onto the desk as he looks down. 

“Oh. Ah...” 

Otabek looks up from his keyboard to see his mother pulling back from the camera and Father’s hand gripping the back of her chair. 

“Is that okay? Um, I think I like both...” He mumbles, not really knowing what else to ask, cheeks burning hot from having to admit it out loud. He’d had the whole thing planned but now, sitting under their stares, his mind is blank. He can’t think of a single good thing to say. 

“We love you, Otabek, no matter what. We’re going to to go, now, though. Your cousins are coming over for dinner and we need to get ready.” 

Otabek glances at his clock. It’s 9:37am in Almaty. 

 

* * *

 

The rain was getting worse as Otabek drove towards Russia. The sky cracked open and let shattered light through the breaks between the clouds, making itself look like a swirling mess of different shades of black and grey and blue. 

Otabek had three more hours of driving left, two and a half to the border, then half an hour past to the small town he was planning to sleep in for the night. He was ready to get out of the rain and praying to any god that was listening to allow him to get through the border without getting drenched. He trusted his bike, he’d mostly built it himself, but it was still a bike and he was still out in the open, slowly getting soaked. 

He flicked up the seat warmers to their highest setting even though he was trying to save fuel. The summer rain was cold out on the open landscape. There was nothing there to keep the heat in, just the breeze. 

 

* * *

 

Yuri’s voice is screaming through the phone so loud Otabek has to hold it away from his head, one eye shut. It’s 3am in Almaty, midnight in St. Petersburg. Yuri should be asleep. 

“THAT BASTARD HAS RUINED MY ENTIRE CAREER!” Yuri’s voice sounds like static and cracked ice. It’s terrifying. 

“Yura, what’s going on?” Otabek tries to say in between Yuri’s bursts of incoherent yelling. 

“Fucking Google me, Beka. Just fucking - he’s fucking ruined everything!” 

Otabek flips Yuri to speakerphone even though he’s loud enough to be heard without it, and runs a quick search on his name. The white light of his phone burns his eyes until they water. 

_ YURI PLISETSKY - DOPING ALLEGATIONS TRUE? _

_ RUSSIA’S GOLDEN BOY FALLS FROM GRACE _

_ RUSSIAN PUNK CRUMBLES _

“Yuri…” Otabek starts, trying to sound gentle even though Yuri’s still screaming. “Was this Dmitri?” 

Dmitri, Yuri’s recently-broken-up-with first boyfriend, a shithead with red hair, a cheap and dangerous car that he drove too fast, and a nicotine addiction was the bane of Otabek’s existence. He made Yuri late because he didn’t care about Yuri’s training schedule, he made Yuri mad for fun, he made Yuri talk about being in love even though it was obvious to everyone but Yuri what exactly Dmitri wanted.

They met at a punk show in the city. Dmitri served Yuri even though he was underage. Dmitri was cool, and handsome, and fun, and Yuri latched onto him immediately. 

Otabek tried to like him. He tried to reach out, to talk, best friend to boyfriend. Dmitri had been less than hospitable. 

“YES, of course it was him! He was the one that stole my phone last week!” Yuri sounds less angry now, more wet. His voice is mucusy even through the crackling speakers on Otabek’s phone. He’s reminded, a little, of the night in Barcelona when Yuri called, nervous, to find where Otabek was. He sounds just as unsure as his fifteen year old self but ten times as angry.

Yuri’s phone had gone missing last week, forcing him to buy a new one and change his number, just in case. The notion that Dmitri had somehow picked up Yuri’s phone, only ever out of his hand when he was actively skating or sleeping, made Otabek’s blood run cold. 

“Yuri, take a deep breath. Call Yakov. Call whoever your ISU rep is. They’re going to sort it out, okay?” 

“Otabek if I can’t skate my Grandpa is - I can’t - this can’t - he’s having surgery soon!” Yuri’s outright crying now. Otabek’s heart is pounding in his chest and he feels sick to his stomach. 

“Yuri, Yuri…” He tries again. “People don’t use drugs in figure skating, especially not flexibility-driven skaters like you. The ISU has drug tested you before and you’re always clean. They’ll drug test you in the morning and you’ll be clean. You just gotta breathe, Yura.” 

Yuri hiccups down the line. He doesn’t make fun of Otabek for using the overly-familiar nickname like he usually does. 

“I just don’t understand why he would do this. I thought we were cool. He said we were cool.” He’s still as wet-sounding, but now he’s small and distant. Otabek clutches at his phone. The caller ID is a picture of them both, from a year ago, sitting in a cat cafe in Almaty. A snow white ball of fluff is in Yuri’s lap and he’s smiling his toothy, podium smile. 

“People always want to control our identities, Yuri. There’s not a lot of use in asking why. You’re just going to have to prove him wrong.” 

“I thought we were cool.” Yuri’s repeating it over and over and he sounds like he can’t breathe quite right. Otabek can’t, either, sitting in his too-big bed in his apartment. His room is quiet except for the sounds of his friend through his phone. 

Yuri cries into the phone until the morning. They stay up together for the rest of the night. Otabek knows he’s going to hurt once he has to get out from his bed but he can’t find the right way to say goodbye, not when Yuri is so furious and sad on the other end of the call. More than that he doesn’t want to, so he sits with his phone plugged into the wall trying to find ways to calm Yuri down. It’s worth it to earn a small laugh out of him by the time the sun is coming up in Almaty. 

Otabek can see the sky turn pink out of his window, over the mountains, as Yuri begins to laugh in his room through the phone. He closes his eyes, feeling the sun’s warmth, and listens to Yuri ramble, half angry, half tired, almost like he’s there. 

He feels alone.

 

* * *

 

The sky dumped everything it had on Otabek as he drove. Rain trickled down the back of his jacket and got into his gloves. He’d pulled out his rain gear on the side of the highway but he was still wet, and cold, and damp. 

The flashing red lights of the border came through the dreary fog and mist of the afternoon as Otabek stopped and started in the queue. He was anxious to cross the line and the slow moving traffic wasn’t helping him calm down any. One car went through at a time regardless of the weather; there was no way to speed it up no matter how wet and pitiful Otabek got. Car horns blared, the guard's whistle shrieked like the referee yesterday, and Otabek’s motorcycle engine whined ever so slightly. 

He refused to get angry with the weather - he couldn’t control it, nor could he fight it, so he sat on his bike, stopping and starting, and waited for his turn to blow through the checkpoint. 

The line crawled slowly forward until he was tenth, fifth, third in line, then second in line, then rolling up to what was little more than a toll both with a heavyset man standing outside it. Otabek pulled his helmet off, exposing his face to the rain, and reached into his saddlebag to fish out his passport and ID. He’d wrapped them in plastic in the morning and it crinkled under his cold and stiff hands. 

The guard that stared him down had fat, ruddy cheeks and a moustache so long it curled into his mouth as he spoke. Otabek couldn’t stop looking at the hairs getting trapped between his lips as he mouthed out the words printed on the passport. 

“Otabek Altin...Altin...I’ve heard that name somewhere.” The guard squinted at him, glancing back and forth from his passport to his face. He sounded like he was tasting his name. “Altin...Altin…”

He’d been recognized in public before. After the Olympics it was almost daily. He was used to it, had canned responses to the same three questions he always got asked at the ready, but he still didn’t like it even when the weather was good and he didn’t have four more days of driving ahead of him. He sat back on his bike and felt it sink beneath his weight as he waited for the guard to put his name to his face to his medal count. 

“Oh, I know - you’re that boy that hangs around Yuri Plisetsky, aren’t you? My daughter loves figure skating, always makes me buy those fucking magazines you lot are in.” 

Otabek looked up at the guard while rain dripped from his hair to his face. “That’s me.” 

The guard frowned. “People always say you two are fags, huh. That shit would make me so angry. It’s disgusting.” 

Otabek stared at the guard’s fingers, fat like sausages, where he clutched his passport. His moustache was still in his mouth. The red and white striped metal bar that hung over the Russia-Kazakhstan border reflected his headlight back at him as he clenched his teeth, looking for the right reaction. His blood was acid as the guard spoke to him.  _ Disgusting.  _

Agreement gave value to his statement. Disagreement got him barred from Russia. 

The guard pressed even closer, standing in front of him and blocking Otabek’s view of flat plains and his road out of Kazakhstan.

“People say a lot of things, I guess.” Otabek offered, trying to stay in neutral territory. He could hardly see for the water in his eyes and the dark, barely-there light of the storm. The guard’s face swam in front of him as he blinked and tried to keep steady as he balanced on the bike, one boot on the road. 

“Doesn’t it bother you? You’re a man. It should bother you.” The guard leaned into Otabek’s face further, meeting him eye to eye. 

Otabek swallowed. “I don’t listen to other people much.” 

The guard laughed, open mouthed, showing off his black-capped back teeth. He shoved the passport at Otabek’s chest where it got wetter than it already was. Otabek scrambled for it, shoved it back into his bag with the rest of his things he prayed weren’t damp from the mist and the rain. He ran a gloved hand through his hair, put his helmet on, and sped through the gate, barely waiting for it to be raised. 

Russia looked no different than Kazakhstan but he still sighed his relief at getting through the border. 

 

* * *

 

Petukhovo looked like nothing. Every building was small and wooden and in need of new paint. His room in the inn was cold but dry, his mattress thin but clean. Otabek laid down and tried to ignore the burning in his shoulders as he looked at his phone, the screen of which was full of the day’s notifications. He cleared them, uncaring. 

With a sigh he pulled up Yuri’s phone number and pressed the small green phone button. It rang three times before Yuri picked up with a barely-there grunt. 

Otabek closed his eyes. “I’m in your country.” He waited for Yuri’s voice to come through the phone, to fill up the tiny little room he had to himself. There was something in the pit of his stomach that he wanted Yuri to soothe. 

“Hey, Beka, how was your trip?” Yuri’s voice washed over him. 

“Um...” He started, frowning to himself as he spoke. 


	4. A Parking Lot in Almaty (An Entire Summer)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek’s bike is nothing but parts around him and a frame with one wheel still attached. He doesn’t know what’s broken and what works so his plan is to assemble it with all sorts of combinations of old and new parts. It’s going terribly. He’s frustrated and sweaty even though he’s rigged up a fan in the parking lot with the help of three extension cords.

Otabek’s heart is pounding in his ears as he steps out of the quiet DJ booth and into the noise of the club. He’s been nervous the whole set - this is the largest and most popular club he’s ever played. It’s bigger than Poblenou back in Barcelona and it’s bigger than the largest club in Almaty. A friend invited him down to play, all the way out in Ibiza, and this club is not only bigger but it’s also influential in his corner of the music industry. Playing here almost always turns out more and more opportunities to travel and play. DJing is his hobby, decidedly, but it’s still important to him. His hands sweat around his cold drink. 

Otabek can’t say if he wants to make music his life’s work after skating is done but in clubs like this it’s hard to resist the call. The crowd swells underneath him as he walks down the steps. He is thankful that the stage is elevated, distant, from the people that dance to the music. His turn is over and an attractive woman with green hair is taking over his spot. Everything’s black and glittering and for a moment he wishes he could have brought Yuri with him. He knows he’ll see Yuri soon enough, even if it’s just through his phone screen, but he still wants to pull the boy drunk out of the crowd and ask him how he did - Yuri’s opinion is the only one he needs when it comes to his music. 

As it is, he’s leaving the club to sleep in a hostel and go back to Almaty in the morning. There’s a bad taste in Otabek’s mouth. He spits but it doesn’t help. 

 

* * *

 

Otabek’s bag rolls behind him as he walks down the street to his apartment building. He’s excited to get home. His girlfriend is watching the place and she’s probably asleep in his bed right now, covers pulled up to her chin. She’s beautiful when she sleeps. He wants to see her very badly. 

They met in one of his classes at University when he walked in late and sweaty from a long practice session. She handed him the notes from the beginning of the lecture at the end of the class for naught but his phone number in return. He’d been so flustered by her kindness that he’d almost read out JJ Leroy’s number instead of his own. 

Now she’s in his bed regularly and he wants to tell her he loves her. His parents have met her, and like her, and he wants Yuri to meet her too. 

The sidewalk is cracked underneath him, making his suitcase jump. It’s heavy and full of things he didn’t need to bring, but he usually packs like that - too much shit shoved in to be comfortable but he always worries he’ll need something so he brings it anyway. Inevitably this means he ends up bringing a suit to a beach vacation “just in case” and his friends justifiably make fun of him. 

His suitcase pops behind him again. He can see his building down the street and hurries on. 

His apartment is brand new, all white, and clean. He bought it with money he made off of sponsorships that popped up around last year’s World’s and the subsequent housewarming party he threw nearly got him kicked out of the building. His friends had refused to leave, enjoying seeing him go from happy-drunk to tired-introvert-grumpy to pissed to exhausted. Someone left weed in the bathroom that he smoked with Yuri a few weeks later when he visited at the beginning of the summer. He still has alcohol in his freezer that he has no interest in drinking alone. 

Otabek can hear a shuffling sound on the other side of his door. There’s a low voice, too. It’s probably the TV - Raushan can’t sleep in the dead quiet. He unlocks his door as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake her up if he can help it. He can picture her asleep in his bed, her black hair fanned around her face as she sleeps.

_ “I should take her out tonight.” _

With the door open he toes off his boots, a habit left over from spending a summer in Japan with Yuri a few years ago. In just his socks he walks down the short entry hallway that opens to the living room. The sun shining through the far window illuminates the door frame, making the room he’s walking into bright white for a moment before his eyes adjust. 

There’s a man in his apartment. Raushan is awake. They’re bent over the couch and Otabek can see where her panties are pulled aside to make room for him. 

“Otabek!” She says, eyes meeting his. The man behind her stills and Otabek drops his suitcase and turns on his heel, leaving the way he came. 

 

* * *

 

The bike that’s been staring him down for the better part of six months from the back of his mechanic’s shop is still there when he goes, just hours after taking Raushan’s key back from her. He buys it without thinking, already knowing he’s probably getting ripped off even though his mechanic is a nice man. 

Otabek’s heart is racing as he walks the bike home. It won’t turn on, no matter what he tries. His heart is pounding just like it was last night when he stepped out of the booth in Ibiza, drink in hand, dreams of flying home to Raushan in his mind. 

With heavy steps he marches home while pushing the bike. He doesn’t know where he’s going to put it or how much money it’s going to take to fix it but he wanted it so he got it. He can feel heat rise up off the pavement of the city as he walks home, still in his leather jacket. It had been appropriate in the cool morning weather before he’d had a hole ripped in his stomach. 

Otabek pushes the bike into the parking lot of his apartment building. He shoves it into a spot close to the back door and runs to get his laptop, three flights up, barely breaking a sweat. It’s the beginning of the summer and he can feel heat in the walls of the building already. 

He perches the laptop up on a chair he’s brought down. Skype beeps open. 

“Yuri!” He barks as soon as the screen goes from black to the off-white of Yuri’s bedroom walls. “I have a new bike. And I’m single.” 

Yuri’s mouth drops open and it’s almost cute. His face is red. 

 

* * *

 

Otabek’s bike is nothing but parts around him and a frame with one wheel still attached. He doesn’t know what’s broken and what works so his plan is to assemble it with all sorts of combinations of old and new parts. It’s going terribly. He’s frustrated and sweaty even though he’s rigged up a fan in the parking lot with the help of three extension cords. 

When he takes his shirt off Yuri looks away for a second. 

“She said that dating me was too much pressure.” He’s got a spark plug in his hand but he can’t remember if it’s “new” or “old”. He hooks it up anyway. “Dating a celebrity was too much for her. Not that I’m even that famous.” 

“That’s really fucked up, Beka.” Yuri’s looking at him again but there’s something strange about his expression. 

“I mean, I get it - “ He starts. 

“Goddamnit, Altin, you’re always like that. She hurt you. Stop defending her.” 

“You defend people that hurt you.” Otabek wipes sweat out of his face, no doubt getting grease across his forehead. 

“Fuck off.” 

 

* * *

 

“The steering is all fucked up, it won’t go straight.” Otabek got the bike to turn on the day prior but in his attempted lap of the parking lot he noticed a brand new problem. Every time he tries to hold the bike in line it shudders underneath him and leans left, forcing him to go in circles. 

“Heh, just like you.” Yuri’s not even smiling as he makes the joke. His face is smooshed together as he concentrates on his homework. His tutoring schedule is terrible - light but steady, giving him no summer break. This is the last summer he has before taking college classes in the same manner that Otabek does. Just two or three at a time, giving him the possibility of graduating by the time he retires if he doesn’t screw up. 

“Have you ever even touched a boob, Plisetsky?” Otabek huffs. 

“One time I accidently saw Mila topless. It was horrible, I don’t know how you do it.” Yuri’s still not looking at him, but he’s smiling. Otabek looks at him for just a moment too long. He’s been doing that lately and he doesn’t know why. 

“Anyway. I think I might fix this thing by the end of the summer.” Otabek stands back to look at the bike. It’s filthy but not unwashable. It almost looks roadworthy, minus the fact that it won’t drive in a straight line. 

Yuri puts down his pencil and props his head up in his hands like some kind of cherubic farce. “You gonna go touch a boob on it, Altin?”

“Fuck off.” 

 

* * *

 

The sun is beating down on Otabek’s back and Yuri isn’t picking up their usual call. It’s not like it’s scheduled or anything but they’ve spoken to each other nearly every day for the first half of the summer. Yuri does homework or scrolls through Instagram or cooks food Otabek wants to eat while Otabek gets himself dirty with motor oil and rust trying to take the bike apart or put it back together. 

He’s pulled it apart again and he’s sitting in the middle of the parking lot. His laptop chirps behind him, telling him no one’s on the other end. He closes it with a sigh. 

_ “Your friend is allowed to hang out with other people, asshole.” _

Otabek clicks open his tool box and sits down on the asphalt of the parking lot where his bike rests on its kickstand. His back hurts from his workout and sitting is an effort he wasn’t expecting. 

Being alone has always been a specialty of Otabek’s. He has friends, he has Yuri, and he loves his family and rinkmates but his reputation as a dark horse is justified. He knows he shouldn’t feel lonely when he’s used to being alone. He’s lived alone for nearly more years than he hasn’t at this point. He doesn’t get homesick that often. Even still, he feels lonely in the sun without Yuri on his laptop. There’s something about the way Yuri is so present even when he has one headphone in and is doing math homework. Otabek never feels alone with Yuri there, even when they’re not talking. 

He feels that now as he digs into the bike with his hands, gutting it. 

He sits, staring at the parts he’s pulled out. They’re on the asphalt around him, staring at him, and he doesn’t know where to start. He doesn’t know where the problem is. He’s repaired bikes before but that was always minimal maintenance with Papa Leroy’s supervision, back in Canada. This is a much bigger task and it’s one he wasn’t prepared for. 

Raushan’s face flashes in Otabek’s mind. She hadn’t looked surprised when Otabek had walked through the door even though the man she was fucking had called after him as he left his own home. 

“Who the fuck are you?” He’d yelled, probably still inside Raushan. 

Otabek pushes the memory out of his head, trying to look at the bike in front of him. He sighs, feeling familiar pricks of unfocused energy in the back of his mind. If he lets it wander he will never get it back and it’ll be a day wasted (never mind his morning practice and gym session) but he can’t decide where to start with the bike. He picks up piece after piece but remains unable to figure out how to put everything back together in a way that would fix his steering. 

_ “Get it together, Altin.” _

He lays down on the warm asphalt, feeling rocks press into his back. 

“Fuck you.” He says to his bike while he stares at the sky through his sunglasses. The sun is in the west and starting to set. He knows it’s still the middle of the day in Saint Petersburg, but only just, and he wants to call Yuri again. Instead, he picks up his phone and raises his middle finger at the bike and grabs a picture for Snapchat. Closing his toolbox and hauling up the metal he pulled out of the bike be goes inside. He ends up face down in the couch Raushan cheated on. 

Otabek hates feeling sorry for himself but inevitably he ends up here, in this familiar kind of sadness. His head feels both empty and full - nothing’s inside it but the images of her with that other man. The bike is no longer proving to be a sufficient distraction from his feelings. 

Yuri doesn’t open the Snap until much later at night, when Otabek’s moved his shitty pity-party from the couch to his bed. His breath catches when he sees the red arrow empty out to white. 

The picture he gets in response is Yuri, all dressed up and sticking his tongue out. There’s a boy pressed into his neck and no caption. Otabek frowns. Yuri’s probably drunk, probably out at one of the clubs he likes in his own city and he’s probably having a lot of fun. It’s his off day tomorrow and Otabek hates that he knows that almost as much as he hates that it’s not his own off day and he can’t spend it talking to a sorely hungover Russian Punk. 

Otabek eats eggs and toast for dinner. It’s uninspired and flavorless. He tries to scroll through social media to keep himself busy as he procrastinates on his homework but has to give up as soon as he’s done eating. He’s tried and can’t focus still. 

In his bed Otabek feels restless. He made no progress with his bike, nor with his homework, and he’s dehydrated from sitting in the sun for so long. He feels lonely. He feels stupid for feeling lonely. He tosses and turns, unable to get comfortable, unsure if he even wants to sleep. His laptop is on his dresser next to his bed and his phone is plugged into the wall on the other side. He’s got a TV and a stack of unfinished books, he’s got half-planned choreographies littered in various notebooks somewhere, and he’s got costume plans. None of them catch his interest. 

His hand is in his pants more out of boredom than interest. His dick feels heavy in his palm after just a few half-hearted pulls but even like this he can’t focus on anything in particular. His mind cycles through different repeatable fantasies but he doesn’t stick to any one thing. The last time he had sex was with Raushan, months ago, before she announced her disinterest by fucking another man in Otabek’s home. 

His mind goes to her face and her body, beautiful and petite, but it feels wrong to think about her when they have no relationship anymore. He thinks about Mila sometimes because she’s cute and he doesn’t see her that often so it doesn’t feel awkward when he does. He thinks about how he wants to touch a man soon as his hand slides over himself, feeling precome wet his palm. 

He prefers men, he supposes, but it’s hard to nail down. Yuri jokes that Otabek changes with the seasons, chasing tall men and small girls, freaks with blue hair and nose rings, girls primed to be beauty queens and valedictorians. Yuri has a lot of opinions on what Otabek does with his body, but then again, Otabek has opinions about Yuri, too. 

Yuri doesn’t exactly date, often decrying his freedom, but Otabek’s knows he has a lot of experience. For someone so prickly around new people he latches on quickly. He sees a lot of shithead boys that want the money he doesn’t have or the fame he detests. He dated one of them, Dmitri, before it went downhill fast. 

Otabek moves his hand faster, trying not to think about the boy that’s dancing on Yuri right now. He tries not to think about how he’s touching Yuri, grabbing at him, trying to put his hand in Yuri’s pants. 

Otabek can feel pressure in his stomach the more he thinks about Yuri with other boys, how they pet his hair, how they touch his hips in clubs as they try to dance with him. No one can ever match Yuri’s rhythm. 

His phone lights up with a Snapchat notification. Otabek looks down at his dick in his hand and his blinking phone and with a sigh grabs the offending device. The Snap is from Yuri. When he opens it his eyes go wide. Yuri’s framed a shot of himself, pantsless, grabbing at himself. He’s hard. The next snap is Yuri’s face and he looks mortified. 

The caption reads _ SORRY NOT FOR YOU WOOPS SORRY!!!! _

Unfortunately for Yuri the image of his hard dick is burned into Otabek’s brain. He’s almost thankful for the way it’s driven out all of his thoughts about Raushan. He continues to slide his fist over himself, feeling smoldering warmth in his groin as he closes his eyes against the light of his room. Yuri’s cock is still hard somewhere in St. Petersburg and some other man is on his knees, hearing Yuri groan in a club bathroom. 

He groans into the quiet of his room and comes in his palm, catching everything. When he goes to the bathroom to clean up he can’t look at himself in the mirror. 

 

* * *

 

It’s only a week before the official start to Otabek’s season, marked by his first competition, and he can drive the goddamned bike down the street without worrying. It drives smooth and powerful, as it should for the amount of money and time he’s poured into the damn thing. Part of him is sad that he doesn’t have an excuse to call Yuri every evening now because the bike doesn’t need any more work so he doesn’t get to sit and fiddle with it while talking to his friend. 

The wind hits his face as he drives. It feels good and cool against his skin. The summer is almost over but it’s still hot in Almaty despite the mountains. He’s already seen Yuri putting on long shirts that cover up his arms and choose leggings over shorts, not that they really hide anything. Yuri, of course, looks good in anything, but he especially looks good in the tight black leggings he wears that leave nothing to the imagination, even when he wears a dance belt. 

He’s seen Yuri dress like that hundreds of times before but recently his heart has started pounding at the sight. He’s jerked off to the images more times than he’s comfortable admitting. He’s probably got feelings for Yuri. He’s in his mind all the time now. He misses their calls with an ache in his chest and it doesn’t feel like just a missing habit. 

In the evening Otabek calls Yuri. He’s nervous as he clicks his name, always at the top of his “recents” list no matter what method of communication they’re choosing for the day. Yuri’s at the top of his texts, phone calls, Skype calls, Twitter and Instagram DMs… Otabek knows at the season hits its head those standing will probably change. When the weather cools Yuri’s flip is switched and he will often become unreachable for days as he works a problem out in his head or on the ice. 

Otabek’s different in that regard. He only had problems in the summer time. All other months are for skating. Everything else goes on hold. Missed homework is forgiven, short sets are forgotten. There’s nothing but ice for Otabek in the winter. 

“What’s up?” Yuri yawns into his laptop screen. He’s resting his head on a notebook and the paper is sticking to his cheek. Otabek can see Potya’s paw in the corner of the frame from where she likes to sit on Yuri’s desk. 

“My bike is done.” Otabek smiles as he talks to Yuri, who looks beautiful.

Yuri pulls his head up from his notebook and Otabek can see where there’s a pencil tucked behind his ear. 

“Bring it to Russia. I wanna drive it.” 

Otabek laughs as he looks at Yuri. “You don’t have a license, dumbass.” 

“So teach me.” He shrugs. 

“I dunno, you can’t even use Snapchat right…” 

“LET IT GO!” Yuri wails. Potya jumps off the desk. Otabek laughs even harder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @softieghost


	5. Yekaterinburg / Omutninsk (7 + 8.5 Hours)

“Happy one year anniversary, babe.”

Yuri’s voice made Otabek choke on his coffee in the parking lot.

“Excuse you?” He said, fumbling with the microphone buttons on his headphones.

“You bought that motorcycle a year ago, dumbass.” Yuri laughed as he spoke. “But I guess that, once again, only I will laugh at my jokes…”.

“Try being funny next time.” Otabek said with a grin.

Otabek hung up the phone without waiting for Yuri to respond. When he called back Otabek declined his call, choosing instead to flip his phone to airplane mode and swing his leg over his bike seat. He sat back on it and looked at the view for a moment. Blue sky, small buildings, and green trees surrounded him. He liked this town but he wasn’t sad to say goodbye. In Yekaterinburg, seven hours away, he’d be even closer to Yuri.

Otabek could taste the distance closing between them. He felt an energy inside him that was normally reserved for the moments before he stepped on the ice - hot and cold all at once. The feeling had been there since the start of the last summer and now he knew it was boiling over into his blood from his stomach.

_“If I don’t tell him...what happens?”_

The question had been weighing on him heavily throughout last night. He’d tried to sleep on the thin mattress in his small rented room but he’d had trouble keeping his eyes closed. Being in Russia had flipped a switch in him. His phone, his mind, his hand in his pants hadn’t been a good enough distraction. All thoughts lead back to Yuri.

Otabek could envision sitting on Yuri’s couch, trying not to touch him. They would skate together and Otabek wouldn’t look too close. They’d cook in Yuri’s abysmally small kitchen and Yuri would ask what was wrong and Otabek would lie right to his smiling face.

_“If I do tell him, what then?”_

At best, well. But at worst, screaming and yelling and the decimation of a five year plan that led to a five year friendship. Ten years of thinking about Yuri Plisetsky down the shower drain.

Otabek flipped down his visor against the morning sun and with a few beeping taps on his GPS he sped off towards the highway, feeling his heart pound in his chest.

_“How am I supposed to know?”_

The bike groaned underneath him as he changed gears. His own shoulders hurt from being hunched over for the past three days. His lower back ached and his hands hurt from being curled around his grips for so long. He sympathized with his bike as it complained.

Otabek was no stranger to being on his own. He had always prided himself on being independent but as he ventured into his fourth long day of driving he felt small on the road. He wished he could have someone with him, someone to put their arms around him and talk to him as they counted down the hours until Yekaterinburg, or his next two cities before he hit Saint Petersburg. Without someone with him his thoughts had begun to circle around themselves in his mind.

_“But if I do tell him…”_

Otabek squinted as the sun hit both of his mirrors, blinding him from both sides. The glass turned solid, shining yellow and he couldn’t see other cars approach him before they passed.

_“And when he ends our entire friendship? Good luck then, idiot.”_

Ahead of him there were no signs, no guides, not even a building to tell him he was still in the right country. His GPS showed nothing but a purple line cutting through an empty green expanse. Stay on P354 for 544 kilometers.

He couldn’t see where he had left, nor could he see where he was going. Otabek was nothing but an ant on a tightrope.

His bike groaned underneath him once more.

_“Yeah, yeah, I know.”_

 

* * *

 

Yekaterinburg was a beautiful city, glittering silver and white on the Iset River. All the same, it seemed to yell at him. The streets were full of honking and angry cars and just-as-loud pedestrians that he zipped around as he searched for his hotel. Every car came a little too close for comfort and people on the sidewalks shouted at him while the city towers loomed over him and swayed in the early summer breeze.

The hotel he was staying in looked over the river. He hadn’t paid for the view but he was glad to have it. The summer sun warmed his face as he stepped onto the balcony for a moment. He could smell the river, deep and murky beneath him. He wanted to dive in, to hold himself underwater for a moment so he didn’t have to think about his deadline. He wanted to stop thinking about anything. His brain felt the way the river looked - glittering, full, and blinding.

Otabek took a deep breath and stepped back into his hotel room. He shook his head, trying to clear the static inside it and grabbed his jacket from where it was thrown on the bed. The leather slipped between his fingers still as smooth as the day he’d bought it. Yuri had sewn a tiger patch on it, right on the breast pocket. In the mirror he touched the snarling tiger, feeling where some of the threads had come loose. He’d have to ask Yuri to resew it.

 

* * *

 

The best part of Yekaterinburg, according to the only source he asked (a certain blonde Russian boy), was the zoo which housed not only lions, but also tigers, and even snow leopards and pumas (among other animals that weren’t big cats). This certain source warned him against the traffic, and the crowds, and the prices of all the food, but encouraged him heavily to visit “just to see the fucking awesome tigers. They’re fucking huge!” And so Otabek went.

The crowds swept passed him as he walked slowly and tried to enjoy the feeling of using his sore legs for something other than balancing on his motorcycle. He loved his Bonneville dearly, but as his knees popped as he walked, he blamed it.

At the tiger enclosure, Otabek couldn’t get too close. Children were lined up, hands pressed to smudged class, like miniature guards. The animals inside prowled and huffed at each other. One was sleeping in the sun on a hill, face pressed into its paw the way Potya always slept on Yuri’s bed. One, sitting proudly in front of the glass, tracked him as he walked. Its green eyes flashed in the sun and Otabek was reminded, strangely, of his friend.

Otabek’s picture captured the glare of the sun better than the animal itself. Yuri would hate him for sending such a terrible photo, and so he did it happily. He considered it his duty as a best friend to muss Yuri’s easily ruffled feathers as often as he could.

Otabek skirted the throngs of kids in order to leave his tigers behind and made his way to the lions.

There, he took a picture of the sign that said “LIONS” and nothing else.

By the time he had gotten to the other big cats Yuri had started to respond.

_otabek u fuck show me the goods_

_otabeeeeek send me a real picture_

_youre actually the worst, you know that right?? I send you to a zoo and you bring back nothing….._

Otabek smiled as his phone continued to harangue him while he walked. It beeped and vibrated in his pocket at a constant meter as Yuri grew more restless.

Otabek didn’t respond until he had made his way out of the gift shop, two plush black pumas in hand.

_I’ve named them Tigershark and Whaleshark. Which one do you want?_

_BOTH!!!!_

 

* * *

 

Being alone in his hotel room again was a shock. The sounds of the crowded zoo and the streets of Yekaterinburg echoed in Otabek’s head. Nothing but the sound of Otabek’s breathing filled the silent room. Despite being a natural loner he wasn’t used to this kind of loneliness.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed but didn’t stand - he felt restless but he knew he needed to sleep. The sun was set and Kirov, his next city, was eleven hours away. The thought alone made him want to rub his eyes. He was beginning to regret his long trip - everything ached, he was out of lidocaine, and he wanted to be able to sleep in a real bed, not on a too-soft hotel mattress.

Four days in and he had made no progress on his feelings for Yuri, other than deciding he had them.

His bag, opened and half spilling out, lay on the floor next to his jacket. He rifled through it for a moment in order to get what he wanted. He didn’t smoke often but he’d been raised on hookah like most of his friends, and so he wasn’t afraid of the little dime bag in his hand or the lighter in his other. His friend had given it to him as a traveling gift, not that he ever intended to get high before he drove, but on an evening like this - calm and warm, but so tired - he wasn’t going to argue any longer.

The balcony was quiet even though the city was still alive in the evening. Otabek fiddled with the rolling papers and his lighter, flicking it on in his cupped palm. Smoke surrounded his face as he breathed out.

I suppose I should have shared this with Yuri. Ah, well.

The river below him was dark, reflecting the black sky and the buildings that forced it to shimmer with life. The water was still and slow and he watched it for a long time as his head filled with fuzz.

The deck chair on the balcony got more and more comfortable as the joint burned down to ash. His eyes closed and he felt sleep approaching at the edges of his brain. He glanced over at the other chair on the balcony. It had chipped paint on the metal arm rests and he wished, more than anything, that he wasn’t alone.

 

* * *

 

The hookah bar is full of smoke. His friends got vanilla and strawberry flavor but it was mingling with the neighboring booths’ blueberry-banana-coffee-chocolate. Otabek’s sitting on a low, red couch that’s worn thin in the middle from so many different patrons lounging on it over so many years. None of the cushions match. There are tattered tapestries and smoke-stained paintings on the walls. He comes here almost every Friday with his friends from university.

As Otabek leans back with the mouthtip pressed between his lips his phone chirps. With one eye open he can see that it’s Yuri calling him. His caller ID flashes, showing an old picture of Yuri in a cat cafe with a white kitten pressed into his lap and his toothy podium-grin on his face. His heart speeds up, which is frustrating.

Yuri’s voice comes through the sounds of the bar clearly even though the phone is crackling against his ear. Otabek can hear him well, like he was pressed into the couch with him and his friends sharing body heat and breath and tobacco smoke.

“Otabek, you won’t fucking believe what Yakov said to me today…”. Yuri calls down the line. He doesn’t offer a greeting, which is normal.

Otabek sits back as the hookah rotates among his friends. He skips his turn to listen to Yuri’s story.

Yuri’s droning on and on in his ear, yelling about the rink, and about Yakov specifically and then about ‘The Old Man’ and ‘Katsudon’ and then about something else entirely. He doesn’t sound mad but Otabek’s sure his eyebrows are pressed together and he’s almost certainly yelling in public because he doesn’t care about the opinions of strangers all that much.

A camera sound makes him open his eyes to the dim yellow haze of the bar. The sunlight filters through the windows to highlight the ash in the air.

One of Otabek’s friends has his phone raised.

“What?” Otabek mumbles, throwing his hand up over the camera lense on the back of the phone. “...No, not you, Yura, keep going.”

“Man, you know what guys? I miss Otabek. Sometimes I can almost still hear the sound of his voice...the sight of his scowl…”

Otabek’s friends erupt with laughter.

The photo, as he sees later, shows him with his phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, hands resting on his stomach, and a grin on his face. His eyes are closed.

“Whatever, you guys.”

 

* * *

 

Hot ash fell on Otabek’s shirt, making his eyes pull open. He brushed it off where he felt it. He couldn’t see in the inky blackness anymore.

He pulled the end of the blunt out of his mouth and flicked the paper away.

In his half-sleep his hand had found its way to the frayed tiger sewn into the breast of his jacket. He felt Yuri’s absence so strongly as he sat under the night sky that the idea of calling him flit through his brain for a moment before justifying it away.

Maybe not when I’m high. He’s probably eating dinner, anyway.

 

* * *

 

The morning came too quick and too bright. His alarm was too loud and Otabek was still very tired. Kirov was eleven hours away.

He didn’t move from the hotel bed even as his phone chirped at him to get up. Instead he scrolled through messages and Twitter updates, flicked through Snapchat, and checked his public Facebook page. His blankets were warm and the endless scroll of social media pulled his attention more than the world outside his hotel room door.

Otabek paused on Yuri’s face when it filled his screen. Instagram, typical. Yuri stared at him through the glass. He looked like one of the cats from yesterday, eyes half shut, pleased, probably drunk. Otabek bit his lip, feeling dirty as he stared at last night in the morning sun.

A small red and blue mark on Yuri’s neck was barely in the frame. It was mostly hidden by his shirt and the angle of the photo.

Something swam inside of Otabek’s belly as he looked at it. Someone had their hands on Yuri last night.

“If I had called him...no. He’d have done it anyway. You know him better than that.”

Even still, his warm mood had soured. His joints cracked as he pulled himself out of bed and down to the cafeteria and then to the tiny shop open near the front desk where he was able to buy pain killers. With the bottle rattling in his hand he walked back up to his room where even the hot shower and three little white pills didn’t make him feel better.

He stared at his bike in the garage when he got down into it. He gripped his bags in his hands tight enough to make the leather squeak. With a sigh he stepped forward and affixed his bags to either side of the bike. He keyed it to life and swung his leg over the seat.

“You got a nice bike, man.” A voice behind him called.

Otabek turned and looked at the man who had spoken to him. His body felt fire hot where he stretched.

“Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

Two hours in and Otabek was not only miserable, he was nervous. The weather was gray and his bike was shuddering. Otabek was thankful every time his stretch of highway was empty.

Hours passed and Otabek’s bike continued to suffer. The shuddering and groaning was steady and loud. No matter how he clenched his knees to his bike his heart had picked up hundreds of kilometers ago at the thought of falling. Nervous energy rolled in Otabek’s stomach as he passed through town after town, wanting to get as far as he could before he was forced to stop his trip.

Otabek was three hours away from his destination when he finally pulled off the highway. His bike was slowing and shaking as he drove. Bitterness filled his mouth.

Omutninsk, a tiny town barely visible on any map, welcomed him. He sloshed through mud as he went down the main street of the town looking for a mechanic. Every building in the town seemed to be made of wood and every sign hanging outside the few businesses he could see were faded, the Cyrillic barely visible. A few people walked down the cracked sidewalk of the town. They eyed him, ultimately looking away.

At the end of the dreary street he walked down, pushing his bike as the sky began to drizzle, a mechanic’s sign was still flickering. Open.

Inside, the building smelled like oil and sweat and tobacco. A man at the cracked glass counter was smoking as he flicked through a magazine. There was no one else in the shop.

“Excuse me.” Otabek ventured as he approached the counter.

The man didn’t look up at him.

“Would you be able to look at my bike? It’s outside.” He tried again.

The man continued to smoke, so Otabek cleared his throat and put his hand on the counter. With a raised voice he tried again.

“Sir, I need your help.”

The man looked up. One of his eyes was milky and half closed but he met Otabek’s gaze before scanning up and down his face.

“The fuck you doing here? Get lost?” His voice was scratched and rough from what must have been years of smoking. He sounded like he hadn’t spoken in days, just smoked every time he should have been saying something.

Otabek held his gaze. His heart was picking up in his chest. Something about the way the man looked at him didn’t feel right.

“Like I said, my bike. I’m hoping someone can look at it today. I have a lot of driving to do.”

The smoking man walked around the counter and pushed past him. He leaned against the creaking storm door on the front step of the shop and pulled his cigarette out of his mouth only to spit over the railing.

“That bike? It’ll cost ya.” He called back into the shop, looking at Otabek where he was standing by the counter.

“You haven’t even looked at it yet.”

“Yeah. It’s gonna cost ya.”

The man walked down the steps of the shop and the rusted, white door swung shut behind him with a bang, leaving Otabek alone.

He was directed to stay in a dingy inn overnight as his bike got fixed. While he’d stayed in less than stellar inns and hotels before nothing had made him as nervous as this town did. People didn’t meet his eye as he walked down the street and the lady at the counter of the inn seemed confused to have a guest, let alone one from outside of Russia.

His room was small, and cold, and he wasn’t entirely sure if it was clean or not.

Otabek’s head pounded as he sat down on the thin mattress on the bed. He could feel the springs and the room smelt like dust.

Frustration had been building in him all day and now, trapped in an inn room, Otabek melted down. Gone was the amorphous haze of yesterday, smoking a joint on a balcony in a real city. Gone was his patience for musing on feelings.

All he had was the energy to pace inside of a room that got steadily darker until the lone window melted into the dark black wall.

 

* * *

 

Otabek sat in the mechanic’s as he waited for someone to bring his bike back out to him. He hadn’t slept well and the coffee he had found tasted like sludge. It burned his throat as he drank it while he stared at his phone and tried to scribble notes on a torn piece of notebook paper on his lap.

If he passed on his scheduled path, skipping where he should have ended up yesterday, Kirov, and his next scheduled stop, Vologda, and instead went to Totma, which was ten and a half hours away, he could end up in Saint Petersburg on the same day.

Otabek groaned and closed his eyes. Nearly eleven hours of driving on a just-fixed bike, all while the afterimage of Yuri at that party, other men kissing his neck, was still sitting behind his eyes wasn’t going to be an enjoyable ride. That on top of however much money he was going to have to pay the smoking man made Otabek want to fold over on himself.

Instead, he gripped his coffee too tight and spilled it on his pants.

Jesus fucking shit, Altin.

He stood up, looking around for napkins to clean his wet jeans up with.

“Your bike’s done.” The smoking man’s voice broke Otabek out of his thoughts. He turned around to look at him, empty coffee cup still in his hand. The man was leaning against the counter flipping through a magazine. His posture reflected yesterday’s so perfectly Otabek would have laughed if he didn’t feel like he had been thrown into some horrible time warp. Twenty-four hours had passed and the smoking man was still the same. Otabek stood, coffee on his pants, thousands of rubles poorer, with a headache steadily marching into migraine territory and sighed.

“Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @softieghost


	6. Totma / Saint Petersburg (10 Hours + 10.5 Hours)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SAINT PETERSBURG, 500 KILOMETERS  
> The road signs were screaming at Otabek. The more he drove the louder they got, but he couldn’t avoid listening to them.  
> YURI PLISETSKY, 500 KILOMETERS AWAY  
> “I’m so fucked.”

Omutninsk was nearly one hundred kilometers behind him, and still Otabek felt like he had forgotten something. Or, more accurately, that he had left something there in the dark one-window room where he had hardly slept. As soon as the smoking man in the shop had given him his keys Otabek had driven as fast and hard as he could out of the muddy and dark town, not caring much that he looked as wild as he felt. He had felt eyes on him as he blew past the welcome sign and part of him could still feel them on him even now. 

The highway to Totma cut through forest and hills, creating an endless blur of green and brown. The scenery didn’t change, no matter what hour he reached. 

Otabek was ready for the trip to be over. Not only did he want to be in Yuri’s apartment, he never wanted to hunch over bike handles again. As he thought about the ten and a half hour trip he had today, and the ten and a half hour trip he had the next day, his head pounded. But it had been doing that for the last couple of days, so what did it matter? 

_ “You’ve got to make a choice today. Tell him or don’t.” _

Music blared in Otabek’s ears and the scenery didn’t change and cars drove past him. He was stuck in a haze of sameness out on the highway and he prayed he didn’t fall asleep. 

_ “At best he accepts it. But then you have to tell Father. At worst he screams at you.” _

Otabek flicked through song after song, unable to settle on anything. 

_ “What’s more important? Friendship or….?” _

Otabek knew what he wanted. He wanted to curl up in Yuri’s room instead of the guest room. He wanted to wake up next to Yuri himself, not just texts. He wanted to share Yuri’s space, not just be in it, even when that meant getting blankets stolen and being kicked in his sleep. 

But as time and kilometers slipped by he came no closer to making a decision than he had been one summer ago, out in the parking lot, listening to Yuri’s voice static through his laptop screen. 

He stared forward, and he went, and he headed into the little church town of Totma, all while Yuri’s face burned in his mind. He made no choice but to be bitter and lonely for a few more hours until he was able to park his bike at the inn next to the Spaso-Sumorin Monastery and all of it’s decrepit, abandoned glory. 

In the mirror in his room, he stared at his face, and saw his own facade falling off his foundation, just as the Church did. His eyes were dark and had purple bags under them, his hair flat from his helmet, and his throat was dry despite the ever-filled bottle of water tucked into his saddle bags. 

_ “What a pair we are.”  _ He mused as he looked out the window of his room at the Church. 

 

* * *

 

Father’s office smells like tobacco smoke. He always says he’s quitting, that he wants to improve himself, but he keeps smoking anyway. Otabek can hear the goings-on below him in the main floor of the mosque. Otabek can also hear his father hum, and write, and smoke from where he’s seated on the floor. He loves Father’s office. He always feels good here. 

“Otabek. Soon you’ll be old enough to join us.” Father hums as he looks over his work. He rarely looks up from his papers, even as he speaks to his family. 

“Yes, Papa.” 

“Do you know what that means?” Father asks.

“No, Papa.”

Father’s eyes flick up from his papers. He settles his hands on his desk and, with cigarette smoke pouring out of his nose, speaks again. 

“You have to become responsible. You need to be able to make good choices. Choices that benefit those in need, not just yourself. Your family. Your friends.” 

“Yes, Papa.” 

 

* * *

 

Otabek pulled his chair up to the window and opened it. There was no screen so he was able to rest his arms on the sill, one hand hanging out of the window. The sun felt good on his tired face. He was sure he was sunburned despite his helmet, and he knew he had started to break out in his hairline from sweating. His eyes were dry, and heavy, but he didn’t want to sleep just yet. 

_ “Yuri, tomorrow,”  _ he thought to himself and he put his head down on his arm. He sighed. 

The view before him was grand. Blue skies, green grass, a hill with a crumbling church on it. He wanted to commit the sight to memory, but his nervous heart was getting in the way. 

He tried to speak to himself. 

“Yuri, I love you.” 

The words were heavy in his mouth. He didn’t like how they tasted, how they felt. They didn’t communicate anything Yuri didn’t already know - they were best friends, of course they loved each other. 

“I’m in love with you.” 

He buried his face in his arms. Just hearing himself say the words made him cringe. He didn’t want to be the type to be embarrassed by his feelings, but the idea of looking Yuri, komodo dragon mouth Yuri, in the eyes and laying himself out to be attacked made him burn with shame. 

With a small sigh he moved his neck so just his cheek was pressed against his arms. The scene outside the open window was the same, all blues and greens and dusty gray and white stucco. 

“The most important thing - no, no no.” 

“Yuri, I - .”

Otabek groaned at himself as he looked out the window. The worse his week-long headache grew, the worse his frustration was, and the less patience he had for sorting out his feelings. And with one day left he was at his end. 

Otabek knew what he wanted. He had never been more lost on how to get it. 

 

* * *

 

_ dawn of the final day!!!   _

Otabek opened his bleary eyes to stare at the text from Yuri. He ran his hand down his face in the blue light of his phone that was too bright for the dawn. He responded with a thumbs up emoji, the enthusiasm of which he did not feel. 

Otabek got out of bed without moving his head too much as his neck hurt, but so did his shoulders, and his lower back ached. He swallowed some pain pills from the bottle he had bought in Yekaterinburg and stepped into the hot shower desperate for some relief. 

He rubbed at the knots in his muscles as the bathroom filled with steam, dampening the last set of clean clothes he had, unceremoniously dumped on the floor. He was familiar with his own body, familiar with all the kinds of pain it was possible to experience, familiar with many methods of getting rid of recurring joint pops and leg bruises, but the precises combination of tired, excited, and nauseous-nervous settling into his bones was something that hot water couldn’t cure. 

Still, he rubbed at himself, trying to find something to make him feel better. He sighed, too, in the hot mist of the shower. 

When he closed his eyes all he saw was Yuri. Yuri in leather, in lace, in club wear, in Agape, in gym shorts. He saw the Yuri from a few nights ago, with a bite on his neck, and he saw the Yuri he had met in Barcelona, and the Yuri he had met in Saint Petersburg when he was thirteen. 

Otabek grabbed at himself, ashamed to be hard at the thought of his friend again, but he didn’t wait for himself to cool down. Instead, he rubbed at his dick like he had rubbed at his neck, hoping it would make him feel better. 

“I’m in love with you,” he tried again. It didn’t feel any better in the morning than it did last night, but he still came in his own hand, and watched it drip into the shower drain. 

The fog in Otabek’s head didn’t dissipate, even as he got dressed in his black jeans, worn thin at the crotch, and his white shirt, and his black jacket with a snarling tiger fraying from the left breast. He carried it with him into the lobby, and the parking lot, and onto the back of the bike. 

It sagged underneath his weight, like it too was sighing. 

“Almost there,” he said out loud to no one. “We’re almost there.”

Totma didn’t say goodbye to him the way Omutninsk had, with money spent and a feeling of unease chasing him, but he did feel like he was leaving something behind. 

With no more cities between he and Yuri, with only ten and a half hours between seeing him and not seeing him, Otabek was beginning to panic. He was looking down the barrel of an increasingly close gun the more he stared down the highway and he could feel it in the tension in his neck and belly. 

Although Otabek had always found freedom driving the closer and closer he got to Saint Petersburg the more he wanted to turn back. 

He wasn’t ready. It hadn’t been enough time. Not enough hours, not enough kilometers, not enough back and forth for him to face his feelings or his doom, whichever came first. The thought of standing in Yuri’s line of sight still made him want to shy away for he knew he would be caught out even if he didn’t spill but telling Yuri in the first place seemed a suicide mission. 

Yuri had always valued his freedom. It was why he didn’t date, he fucked. He skated, and he won, but he always fought. He lived and breathed a kind of fire that Otabek wasn’t ready to touch, no matter how enraptured he was with it. 

The eyes of Father lingered in his head. 

“Always do what’s best for others, son.” 

Holding Yuri down in a relationship might not be the greatest idea Otabek ever had. He was dedicated to his lifestyle, and his profession, and his grandfather. He didn’t have much time for anything else. 

_ “Father won’t like it either.” _

Father knew. Father accepted. Father didn’t quite hope to have a son-in-law, regardless of how jam-packed his trophy case was. 

SAINT PETERSBURG, 500 KILOMETERS

The road signs were screaming at Otabek. The more he drove the louder they got, but he couldn’t avoid listening to them. 

YURI PLISETSKY, 500 KILOMETERS AWAY

_ “I’m so fucked.”  _

 

* * *

 

Otabek is sitting in the back of class. He’s tired. His gym bag feels like it weighs an extra hundred pounds because it’s the beginning of the season and he’s out of shape and he’s tired, so he feels the weight on his shoulders when he walks. 

He’s in the back of class, but just barely, because his professor yells at him as he walks in, late again. 

He sits quietly and takes as many notes as he can without getting distracted by the boy with a baby on the other side of the room or the girl next to him that’s wearing too much perfume. Night classes tend to draw that kind of crowd - people who have to do something else, first. 

It’s an introduction to marketing class, something he understands vaguely because he himself is marketed by his country on a yearly basis, but not in any kind of specific way. So he takes as many notes as he can. 

His phone rings in the bottom of his gym bag, startling himself and the girl next to him. 

Otabek’s stomach drops as he paws through his bag, trying to get at his phone, which he had thrown in with the least care he could manage. He didn’t like having it on him in class. Too easy to get distracted. 

“Altin! I don’t care who you are!” his professor yells as he finally places his hand on the smooth, cool glass of his phone screen. 

Yuri’s smile lights up in his hand. 

“I’m sorry!” Otabek calls as he dashes out the door. Yuri rarely calls. Even on his worst days he texts. Dread hangs in Otabek’s belly as he jogs down the hall to the student lounge at the end. He sits in a torn vinyl chair and answers his phone. 

“Yuri?” 

“I broke my fucking foot.” 

“Oh.” 

Yuri’s voice is all bubbles and choking. 

“It’s like three toes but I still can’t fucking skate and it’s goddamned September so I’m royally fucking fucked for the whole season.” He’s yelling, too, and Otabek feels his heart clench as he wishes he could hold his friend close to him to sooth the pain he knows he’s feeling. 

“Won’t it only be, like, six weeks?” Otabek asks. He tries to sound light-hearted and calm, as if it would rub off. He isn’t hopeful for his success. 

“I’m gonna be out of fucking shape by the time the GPF rolls around and if I can’t win my own event what’s the fucking point?” 

“Yuri, you’re going to be fine.” 

Otabek settles himself into the old and beaten chair and listens to Yuri yell. He misses class. 

 

* * *

 

_ “Don’t do it, Altin. Don’t ruin a good thing.” _

In the back of his mind, Otabek feels dread creeping up on him. His mouth is watery with almost-barf, and Yuri is only about an hour away. Otabek’s heart pounded against his beaten leather jacket, and suddenly he knew what he had to do. 

Despite all the time, and the wondering, and the daydreaming in circles, Otabek knew he couldn’t find the words to tell Yuri what he felt. If it’s not going to be perfect, there’s no point. There are no fourth-places in love confessions. Just yes, and just no. And if he wasn’t ready, he won’t. 

_ “Maybe...when I leave. Just a little more time.” _

Part of him wanted to cry behind the black tinted glass of his helmet. Instead, he squinted in the overhang of the clouds, where sun shone through, and swallowed back his own frustration. 

Yuri had once said to him,  _ “Nothing makes me happier than the ice.”  _ He’d been drunk, and seventeen, and rather beautiful in a disheveled kind of way, not that Otabek had been aware of that back then. He was a catastrophe of beauty, sloppy and slurring, trying to dance to the beat of music coming out of Otabek’s computer. 

“Beka...nothing compares to skating…”. 

He’d tried so hard to stand up straight, but he couldn’t, and ended up in Otabek’s arms that night. He was solid, and heavy, and good. 

_ “I won’t compare to that.”  _ He knew it. Nothing would come between Yuri and his golds, and his ice, and his own self-destructive nature.  _ “Certainly not me”. _

His head lit up with fire, his leg muscles shook like he had done one hundred jumps, and he settled into the seat of his broken-rebuilt bike, and he knew. 

_ “I need just one more hour.” _

Saint Petersburg arrived upon him. It grew out of the ground around him - the buildings got taller, and more impressive, and newer the straighter he went. Grass changed to farms to houses to suburbs. Glass and metal skyscrapers, cold and unfeeling, led him down the main drags of the city. 

He knew his way to Yuri’s apartment. The GPS was redundant, and he snarled at it as it beeped  _ turn left in 50 meters.  _

_ “Like I don’t know where he fucking lives.”  _

Yuri’s apartment building was unimpressive. He lived outside the center of the city, close to the bridge to Yubileyny, in a generic and new-ish white complex. His apartment, too, without his specific taste in decor, was plain. Everything was modular, and modern, and totally souless here. Inside, though, Otabek knew the monster that lived in 401B. A tiger’s beating heart, all in mass-produced siding. It didn’t fit. 

He drove past Yuri’s apartment without a second glance. 

He went around the block, and then around a few more, as he breathed in and out. He tried to slow his racing heart to no avail. All he did was burn gas and make his throat itch with words he wanted to say but knew he couldn’t. 

“Altin, come on.” 

He went out, away from the city, and in again, like he was lost. His GPS continued to scream  _ recalculating _ in his headphones. 

As his bike pushed empty, and his phone buzzed more than once, he turned and rumbled back to the apartment building. He passed a cafe he and Yuri frequently ate at during his visits, and he went past a shoe store they got kicked out of for trying on all the boots too many times, and he drove past a little white cat on the street. 

A happier Otabek would have snapped a picture with a visible street sign and texted it to Yuri.  _ Guess where I am? _

Instead, Otabek breathed in again, and slowed his bike to a crawl, and pulled up into the driveway of the complex. 

_ “I just need a few more hours.” _

His hands shook as he pulled out his phone. He ripped one of his gloves off between his teeth and let it dangle there as he texted Yuri to come and let him in. 

_ “I need - “  _ He began to think to himself while he stared at the closed white door in front of him. He stood up off his bike, both feet on either side, and waited. 

It flung open, and blonde hair was in his face immediately. Arms wrapped around his middle, attacking him from the side. The smell of orange and spice hit him in the gut. 

“Yuri!” He gasped. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is a day late. We shall resume regular Sunday posting for the next one!
> 
> find me on tumblr/twitter @softieghost


	7. Down The Street (A Day or Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri talked with his hands a lot and with his face tipped back against the couch he looked a little like he was praying.
> 
> He opened his eyes, hands still up in the air, and glanced sideways over at Otabek once more. He looked a little sly, eyes half shut and pointed towards him.
> 
> “What, do you want to kiss me?”

Yuri was heavy in his arms, and tight against his chest. His weight made Otabek stumble backwards, awkwardly, legs still on either side of his bike. He kicked his helmet with his right foot and heard the clatter of plastic on concrete as it rolled away. Yuri pulled away from him, slipping out of his arms, and ran after the helmet before it landed in the street. 

“You’re a mess, Altin,” he called as he walked up the driveway, helmet between his hand and hip. 

“Did you cut your hair?” Otabek responded, glancing over the truth Yuri had unknowing stumbled upon. Yuri’s hair just barely brushed his shoulders. It was the shortest he had seen it in a few years, but it suited him. Not long enough to get him compared to Victor anymore, but not awkwardly chin-length like he couldn’t commit to the look. 

“Yeah,” Yuri said, lamely, as he tucked one side behind his ear. “Anyway, put the bike away and let’s go inside.” 

Otabek rolled his bike into the open door of the garage that the apartment complex shared. Yuri didn’t own a car, but he had a space included in his rent, and so every once in a while his space was filled with Otabek’s bike or Mila’s little two door.

Yuri took Otabek’s bags out of his hands without asking, and led him through the front door of the complex, and into the stairwell. Their feet stomped up the concrete stairs out of time with one another, hitting a rhythm closer to Otabek’s heartbeat than two men walking. They echoed slightly as they walked so he could hear his breathing loud in his own ears. The went up and around, in four circles, before getting to Yuri’s floor. 

Otabek swallowed as Yuri opened the door to the landing, allowing bright light into the dark stairwell. Otabek blinked against it, trying to adjust. He followed Yuri into the hall and went step after step towards Yuri’s door. 

Otabek frowned to himself, behind Yuri, knowing that he was about to throw away five years of waiting and damn near four years of friendship. All the time he had spent in America and Canada, telling himself to chase his dreams and meet the boy that had inspired him so much for nothing. He was reminded, suddenly, of the image of his bike parts spread across the pavement in Almaty. Disjointed and pointless alone. He felt for his bike. 

As Yuri put his hand on his doorknob, Otabek planted his feet. He wasn’t going anywhere near the apartment, not when he had so much to say. He refused to go in like a coward and hide inside the guest room while avoiding all of Yuri’s questioning looks. He couldn’t stand the thought that he might trash half the vacation by admitting something half way through. 

“Yuri,” he started. He sounded like his whining bike engine. 

“Yeah?” Yuri responded, half turned and with his head cocked to one side. One hand lay half on the doorknob, gently, like he was holding something fragile in his palm. His face was half covered in hair, his deep part causing blonde to fall into his face the way it did when they were younger. 

“I…” he started, before steeling himself. Feet as wide as his shoulders, back straight, standing with all the power and confidence he could fake, he opened his mouth one more time. 

“I have feelings for you.” 

The words tumbled out of his mouth, unstoppable. They landed between them - Yuri twisted half towards and half away from his own door and Otabek standing straight. Neither moved for a few seconds of painful, endless time. 

“I figured I should tell you.”

“Huh.” Yuri tucked his hair behind his ear and turned to face his door. His key, pulled out of his tight jeans’ pocket scraped in the lock. 

Yuri opened his door and walked into his apartment. He stood, not facing Otabek, but held the door. 

“Well, are you going to come in or not?” Yuri said into his apartment. 

Although a lot about Yuri had changed since they first met - he had more than one friend, he had learned to (sometimes) hold his tongue, and he would begrudgingly hang out with Victor (but only if Yuuri was there) - some things had stayed the same. He was fire alive, and he was full of love, and he still prefered animal print and dark colors to more traditional men’s fashion. 

His apartment showed all of that off. Two of the walls in the living room were a deep purple, and the curtains were blue. His worn couch was black faux leather and splitting at some of the seams. He had once said Dedushka would kill him if he knew Yuri was spending money on expensive furniture when “half this shit was twice as good”. His sink was always full of dirty dishes no matter how much Yuri cleaned. His gym bag was always overfull and threatening to tear even when it was dropped on the floor in the entryway. The neatest thing in the apartment was Potya’s box, cleaned and refilled every day. 

The thing that had stayed the most similar was how Yuri himself padded around his apartment like Potya did, purposeful and secretive, only announcing himself when he meant to. 

Yuri stalked into his own kitchen and filled a plastic glass with water, which he offered to Otabek, who was standing in the entryway next to Yuri’s rink things. 

“Listen, I appreciate the offer, but...you gotta give me some time. Okay?” He spoke eyeing Otabek up and down. 

“O-Okay. I can do that.” Otabek said, staring straight ahead at Yuri, who stood with his hands on his hips. 

“Now go put your shit in the guest room. Your clothes are already in there.” 

 

* * *

 

Otabek danced around Yuri for the rest of the day. He didn’t get too close, or he accidently ended up brushing shoulders with Yuri, all unconsciously. He laughed too late or too early, and he ate wordlessly. He knew he was making an ass of himself but couldn’t get out of his own head, not after seven days of nothing but circling thoughts. He told Yuri the truth, and Yuri didn’t scream, but now they existed in some kind of limbo. He had asked for more time, and he had gotten his wish. He should have known it would be in the worst kind of way. 

Yuri kept glancing up or over at him. He looked when they walked to the grocery store together, and when they made dinner (piroshkies, because what else is there to eat in a Plisetsky house?), and when they played a game together on Yuri’s TV. 

He wanted to relax but he felt like he was holding his breath for hours, too scared to breathe too loudly should it be the deciding factor in Yuri excommunicating him from their friendship. Yuri didn’t address it, either. He didn’t tell him to relax or chill or make space or come closer like he might normally- he just looked sideways sometimes, like he was thinking. Not knowing if he was, though, was the worst kind of cruelty Otabek could imagine enduring. 

He knew what he wanted - to hold him, to have him, partly to possess him, - but he also knew he would have to be indefinitely silent in order to find out if he could. The cloud that lived inside him, his feelings that rumbled like a storm, no longer wanted to be contained. Not when he was sitting two feet away from the object of last summer’s dedication. 

Being surrounded by Yuri and not being able to talk about what he wanted to talk about was harder than he expected. 

They danced, a half beat out of step, into the evening. 

Yuri yawned, silently, and tipped his head against the back of the couch, blonde hair falling over the edge in places where it wasn’t tangled underneath his skull. 

“Yakov made me do extra fucking drills today. He said,” Yuri began to mock Yakov’s gruff voice, “‘You’re not going to have your mind on the ice now that  _ he’s _ here.’ My fucking shins hurt.” 

“You should stretch them.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m just mad he thinks I can’t do two things at once.” 

Yuri talked with his hands a lot and with his face tipped back against the couch he looked a little like he was praying. 

He opened his eyes, hands still up in the air, and glanced sideways over at Otabek once more. He looked a little sly, eyes half shut and pointed towards him. 

“What, do you want to kiss me?” 

“That’s not fair.” 

Yuri looked forward again and stood up, brushing imagined lint off his track pants, and stepped over Otabek’s feet where they rested on the coffee table. 

“You wanna go for a run tomorrow?” Yuri said. He was facing away from Otabek, but speaking to him anyway. Hi shoulders were hunched a little and his hands were down at his sides. 

“Sure.” 

“I’ll wake you up.”

Yuri didn’t stick around after that. He slipped into his bedroom only after picking a squirming Potya up and closed his door quietly behind him. Otabek exhaled into Yuri’s empty living room and, with a groan, stood up. His back popped as he righted himself and his hips felt stiff from sitting on the couch for hours on end. 

In the living room Otabek felt too large and too cumbersome, as if admitting his feelings had filled the majority of the empty space in Yuri’s home. He could see it in the shadows that moved along the corners of the room, how they creeped in and squeezed all the light out. 

He stepped into the guest room, his mailed-over clothes stacked in two boxes in the corner, and the white curtains blowing from the cracked window. He sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands, wind rustling his hair. 

In the morning, Yuri came through the bedroom door with a crash. Music was blaring from his phone’s speaker and he already had his sneakers on. It wasn’t that Yuri was necessarily a morning person, but more that he had too much energy inside him to ever sleep for too long. Moreover, Otabek was used to being on the receiving end of Yuri announcing himself via bursts of noise and motion, but he hadn’t quite learned to find it enjoyable. 

He threw his pillow in Yuri’s general direction but it hit the wall with nothing but a soft  _ woof.  _

“Nice try, asshole. Get up.” Yuri said as he danced out the room, feet hitting every beat of his music. 

Otabek let his head hit the bed, and stared up at the ceiling, just for a moment before rolling out of the room. He supposed that was a small price to pay for what he had done to Yuri yesterday, all fumbling and incoherent, spilling his innards on the hallway floor. 

His shower was hot and fast, barely time to wash himself or touch himself, though he accomplished both. Yuri questioned him, as they were about to go run, and he justified it by saying he still felt road dirty, and he probably smelled like bike, but he left out that he had tried to wash his regret away. 

Unfortunately for Otabek, it hadn’t worked. He still stood farther away from Yuri than was normal and he tried to ignore the tension radiating off of Yuri that he could only hope he was imagining. He lagged behind as they went down the stairwell, in circles, and onto Prospekt Medikov. 

“We’re going to Yubileyny, and then back. ‘Bout a half hour run?” Yuri said as he fit one headphone into his ear. 

“Sure,” Otabek responded. In truth he could do more than that, but he was technically on vacation, and so he pushed away the little voice telling him to do more. The season had stopped, but he didn’t need to, the voice said. He cranked his music up until he couldn’t hear it. 

Yuri ran ahead of him down towards the Sport Palace. Yuri had longer legs and more natural endurance. If Otabek was honest with himself he would admit that, on certain days, Yuri could have more drive than him. So Yuri ran ahead. They ran through the early summer breeze together, down past the photography museum, and across the bridge where Medikov became Bolshoy, all the way down to Yubileyny and back up again. 

Running through Yuri’s loud and busy neighborhood always made Otabek nostalgic for the last time he had been in Saint Petersburg. They alternated visiting places every year, so he had been on Petrogradsky Island two year ago, when he was nineteen, and thinking about how they would fare in Pyeongchang the following February. That version of Otabek had run ahead of Yuri, showing off, trying to challenge his friend. That version of himself had still been chasing girls, he hadn’t met Raushan yet, and he had completed his first year of University. 

The summer had felt hotter that time around. Now, it was still cool and windy. He watched Yuri’s hair flutter in the breeze as he followed him back to his apartment. 

Yuri took the steps two at a time, up through the damp stairwell, and jogged back to his door. It was typical of him, always going the extra half-step if he could. He jogged in place as Otabek walked (a little slower than normal, and with a grin on his face) down the hall. Yuri stopped moving only when Otabek was within touching distance. He unlocked his door and stepped inside, Otabek once again following. 

“Alright, so, you’re making good on your promise from last summer.” Yuri said as he hopped up onto his kitchen counter and sucked water out of his TEAM RUSSIA bottle. 

Otabek stopped in his tracks, heart jumping a little. “What promise was that?” 

“Teaching me to drive your damn bike.” 

Yuri got down from the counter with a plop of his feet against tile. His bottle got tossed in the general direction of the sink (hitting the wall) and he stretched one hand behind his head and pulled his shirt up and off. The glimpse of skin made Otabek burn a little with confusion but before he could begin to stare Yuri glanced sideways at him again and slammed the bathroom door shut. 

Otabek rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

After Yuri, Otabek took his second shower of the day, where he stared at the blonde hair in the drain, and rubbed himself off again, and thought about using Yuri’s shampoo. He thought maybe he was a little too obsessed if just being in the shower after Yuri made him feel this kinda twisted and hot inside. 

_“Lay off him a little, Altin,”_ he said to himself. All he got was water in his mouth, not relief. 

When Otabek emerged, damp and embarrassed for himself, Yuri was sitting on the couch with one leg bouncing. His jeans were ripped at the knees and his black boots were laced up tight. 

“Alright, come on,” Otabek said. He tossed the keys at Yuri, who just barely got them in his hand. 

They trudged down the hallway and down the gray stairwell once more, though this time they made a lot more noise with their almost-matching boots instead of their almost-matching sneakers. 

Otabek flicked his sunglasses down over his nose as they stepped into the sun for a moment before going into the garage. Yuri stood awkwardly near the bike and looked over his shoulder at Otabek, who was still walking. 

“Uh,” Yuri said, gesturing vaguely.

“What?”

“I don’t know how to turn it on?” Yuri said, as if it was a question. 

Otabek put his hands on his hips, feeling a smile trying to break onto his face. “With the keys, dumbass.” 

Yuri scowled at him, but turned and jammed the keys in the ignition. He turned them, and when nothing happened, he looked back around at Otabek again, still scowling. Otabek moved in closer and turned the bike to life while Yuri still had his hands on the keys. The position he got them into made him breathe down Yuri’s neck, sandwiched between Otabek’s hands - one on the handlebar and the other on the key. 

“Like that,” he said in a low voice instead and stepped backwards. Yuri sat down and jammed his helmet on his head before turning to Otabek expectantly. Otabek sat down and let Yuri wrap his hands around him loosely. 

After a short drive Otabek pulled off the road into the first empty parking lot he could find. The asphalt here was broken and cracked and some of the parking chocks had come free of their postings. But it was void of cars, and in the sun, so it’s where Otabek stopped. 

Yuri slipped his hands away before the engine of the bike was off. He stood up before the kickstand was down and before Otabek himself was off the bike. The immediate absence of his body heat wasn’t lost on Otabek, nor was the scowl on Yuri’s mouth. He yanked his helmet off and ran a hand through his flattened blonde hair a few times, all while staring. 

“What first?” He asked. He was looking straight through Otabek even as he ran his hand through his hair. 

“Turn it on.” Otabek replied, stepping away from the bike. He tossed Yuri the keys once again, though this time they went right through his fingers and he had to bend to scrape them off the pavement. 

“You just turned it off, asshole.” 

Otabek nodded and moved out of the way. Yuri sat down on the bike and flicked up the kickstand, making himself stand awkwardly as he supported the bike himself. 

Otabek raised his eyebrow. Yuri looked less than confident. 

“First, make sure it’s in neutral.” 

Yuri nodded, but did nothing. Otabek’s second eyebrow joined his first. 

Yuri sat back down on the bike, allowing it to roll freely under his weight. “I don’t actually know what that means.” 

Otabek swallowed and began to guide Yuri through the motions. He explained the parts of the bike and how to turn it on. He went through everything the same way JJ’s dad had back in Canada when he had first gotten into the driver’s seat of the ancient, loud as thunder bike he owned. 

Yuri squirmed everywhere Otabek touched him. He leaned away from the balancing hand on his shoulder or back, and pulled his own hands away before his and Otabek’s could meet on the ignition or the throttle. Yuri repeatedly fidgeted, running his hands through his hair or checking the time on his phone. A nervous energy, that Otabek would be a fool to miss, ran through Yuri as the lesson continued. 

_ “He’s just scared of driving, not of me.”  _ Otabek thought to himself as the morning became afternoon. He wasn’t quite sure if it was a lie or not. 

“So, if you hit the gas a little…” Otabek said and watched Yuri adjust himself. 

Yuri gunned the engine and lurched forward. He rolled a few meters before remembering to stop himself, barely getting his feet on the ground before tipping over. Otabek jogged over to meet Yuri where he stood. Otabek could see his wide green eyes through the visor of the helmet and what he expected was a flush of embarrassment across his cheeks. 

“Yeah, like that. Only less.” Otabek smiled down at Yuri. It was weird to be taller than him again. 

Yuri tried again, each time getting more and more steady. He lurched and nearly fell over a couple of times before being able to go in a slow and more-or-less confident straight line. Soon, after Otabek explained counterweighting, he turned corners and drove around the perimeter of the parking lot a dozen times. 

Otabek couldn’t keep his eyes off of Yuri as he drove smooth and steady circles around the lot. He avoided the worst of the potholes and the dislodges chocks with an awkward nobility. Yuri tended to make most things he did look easy - skate, jump, dance, cook, achieve social media celebrity. He had grace in everything he did despite how hard and grueling his hours were. He fell, sometimes a lot, but never where it counted. 

Here, though, in the lot, Otabek could see the tension in his back even from meters away. Had he been closer he was sure he would be able to see white knuckles. 

Despite his clear unwillingness to relax Yuri continued to take his ovals faster and faster. As he rounded the end of the lot once more he sped up one last time, took the corner, and he and the bike went in seperate directions. Otabek watched it happen, knew it was coming, but still flinched as Yuri hit the ground with a loud thud at the same time his bike did. 

He jogged over and offered his hand to Yuri. 

“Wanna know what happened?” He asked as Yuri grunted and pushed himself up. 

Yuri pulled the helmet off of his head and shook his flattened, sweaty hair out. 

“Yes.” He muttered without an ounce of enthusiasm in his voice as he hauled the bike upright. He flicked the kickstand down and perched on the seat, sideways. Once again he ran his hand through his hair, this time looking more frustrated than nervous. His cheeks were pink and his mouth had turned into a scowl again. With his hair pulled back and out of his face, with the help of the thin, purple hair-tie formerly at his wrist, he looked much older than the confident (if petulant) boy Otabek had once met in Barcelona. 

Otabek knew he was just as skilled a skater has that younger version, but as he looked up expectantly, waiting for his lesson, Otabek also knew there was something much different about him. 

“When you get above 10 or so kilometers and hour you have to switch from counterweight to countersteering for turns. Instead of leaning against the turn, you lean with it.” 

Yuri huffed and stretched his hands back behind him, looking upwards. Had Otabek been bolder he would have leaned down and kissed Yuri right there, in the lot, in the sun, in Saint Petersburg. 

He wasn’t that bold. 

“Take me home. My shoulder fucking hurts.” 

Otabek didn’t argue, even though he knew part of Yuri most likely wanted to stay and work out his problems like he did on the ice. There were times Yakov had to ban Yuri from skating for a day or two to ensure he got some kind of rest. He tackled problems head on, and rarely let up. Seeing him like this, a little mad and a little scared, made Otabek feel queasy. 

He slid into the driver’s seat and let Yuri put his hands around his waist. He held tight enough to make his skin go pale. 

The rolled up to Yuri’s apartment slowly and Otabek felt the loss of Yuri’s arms immediately. With the bike rumble gone it was just their footsteps again, back into the building, and up the stairs, and down the hall. 

Otabek could still feel the odd pressure of Yuri’s request for time on his shoulders as they crossed the threshold. He felt it as they made borscht together, out of step again without the bike as proxy. He felt it as he sat farther away than he would normally, and he felt it in all the sideways glances he was still receiving. 

“Today was good. Tomorrow will be better.” Yuri said to him in between spoonfuls of borscht. “I think I have the hang of counterweight even though I fell, so I wanna try going faster. You said it was different?” He was talking a little with his mouthful. A drop of red hung at the corner of his lips. 

Otabek stared at it as he answered, “Yeah.” 

Yuri wiped the drop away with the back of his hand and swallowed. 

“Sounds dumb. You’ll show me?” 

“Yeah.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr/twitter @softieghost
> 
> let me know what you think!! comments are always loved!


	8. The First Rink (Almost One Week)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think some wine for tonight, too?” Yuri said, once again over his shoulder. He picked up a bottle off the shelf and shook it at Otabek like he would shake a cat toy at Potya.
> 
> “Get red, not white.”
> 
> “Alright,” Yuri said with a grin.

The morning after their first driving lesson Otabek padded into the kitchen. He was trying to make as little noise as possible - Yuri could be a light sleeper - but his stomach felt sloshy and he wanted to look for something to fill it, hoping he wouldn’t feel quite as nauseous. He flicked the light on, destroying the predawn dimness filtering in through the window and pulled a small bowl and box of cereal out of the messy cabinets. 

As he ate he looked around the little kitchen that Yuri made do with. Although the kitchen was small and largely unpersonalized, somehow, Otabek felt that he was intruding in Yuri’s territory. A printed picture of Yuri and Nikolai hung on the fridge with an Olympic ring-shaped magnet. Potya, who had escaped Yuri’s room at some point in the night, hung out on the counter and stared over at Otabek intently. 

He reached out and scratched her behind her ears until she flopped over on her side, offering her belly to be petted. 

“Don’t think I’ll fall for that.” Otabek murmured to her as she purred and wiggled under his hand on her head. 

“I will.” A voice came from behind Otabek. He turned and saw Yuri standing there in nothing but worn out boxers. His hair was down, and mussed, and falling around his face. 

“I saw the light on when I got up to piss.” Yuri answered Otabek’s unasked question as he reached around and stuck his hand right on Potya’s belly, earning him some immediate scratches and death kicks. 

Yuri just smiled at her in the way that all cat owners smile as they get cut. He leaned around Otabek, making him press his ass into the counter so they didn’t brush, and picked Potya up. He walked out of the kitchen without another word or so much as a glance in Otabek’s direction. 

Otabek sat his bowl down on the counter and turned the light off before falling back into his own guest bed, feeling a new kind of confused strangeness in his stomach.

 

* * *

 

In the following days Yuri became much more confident on the bike. He stopped falling, drove faster, and took turns around the lot with the kind of power anyone who knew Yuri would expect of him. He wanted to drive on the road, even though he had no license; he wanted to go down to Yubileyny or across the bridges onto the mainland of Saint Petersburg. 

“You have to let me out of this lot at some point,” he whined on the third day of ovals and criss-crosses and start-stops. “There’s no point in practicing if we don’t get to do the real thing.” 

Otabek sighed, and looked down at his boots on the asphalt. “One more day of practice before I let you take my - very expensive and hand built - bike on the road.” 

Yuri flicked the visor of his helmet down and rumbled off to the end of the lot before doing a sharp turn and heading right back at Otabek. 

_ “I guess that’s a yes…?”  _ He thought to himself. 

Unlike at the lot, inside Yuri’s apartment things continued to be awkward. Otabek still received sidelong glances and Yuri still walked around shirtless half the time and Otabek wasn’t sure if he was allowed to openly stare or not. But some things were easier. Conversations came faster and smoother, and Yuri poked fun at Otabek a lot. Otabek didn’t mind much. He was used to it. 

Driving for so long up to Saint Petersburg, as well as being trapped in a small modular apartment made Otabek feel restless. They ran every morning to alleviate that pressure. Yuri was scheduled to go back to the rink at the beginning of the next week and stated many times that he expected Otabek to join him. 

“Now that the Old Man and the Pig are off doing normal people things there’s barely anyone tolerable at the rink. Mila’s schedule got changed and we don’t get to see each other, either, and Georgi’s gone, too…” He had said on the second day. “So you better come fucking skate with me.” 

Otabek had no option to say no, not that he would have anyway. 

“Can’t wait to watch you fall when Yakov gives you your new routine,” he jabbed back.   

“Oh har har, Altin, Mr. can’t-land-it-until-the-day-before-you-need-it,” Yuri laughed at him from the doorway to his bedroom. Behind him, Otabek could see his overfull laundry hamper and his bed with the blanket half kicked off. As messy as it was the room was lived-in which made it inherently more inviting than the plain guest room he was staying in across the hall. 

Otabek scoffed. “And you want me to give you the keys to my bike, huh?” 

“Oh fuck off.” 

Otabek made good on his word, though. They made it through one more day together in the apartment and the following morning Yuri opened Otabek’s door with a crash and a howl. He wanted to drive, and he wanted to leave as soon as they could. 

Slipping his hands around Yuri’s waist made Otabek sweat in his leather jacket. They were only going to go up and down Prospekt Medikov for a while to get Yuri used to traffic and yet at every red light Otabek had to remind himself to breathe, to not squeeze Yuri too tight, and not to tell him what he was doing wrong through the intercom system in the helmets. 

Instead he pressed his head into Yuri’s shoulders and looked at the strips of identical apartment buildings and shops that they passed. He tried to relax but he couldn’t let go of the crawling under his skin as Yuri stopped too hard and started too fast as the lights changed. He tried to breathe evenly but his mind kept getting distracted by how Yuri felt in his arms - solid, warm, and tall. He could feel his heart in his chest the more he sat on the back of the bike holding onto his friend. 

“It’s kind of weird that we switched places, ya know, me in the driver’s seat,” Yuri said. They had sat down in a cafe Yuri liked, a fifteen minute drive from his apartment. They’d gone past it three times already in their quest to get Yuri situated to road driving but Otabek’s stomach had finally growled loud enough that he asked Yuri to stop. 

“Yeah, I don’t like being the passenger of my own bike,” Otabek responded. 

Yuri took a huge bite out of his muffin. “You’ll just have to give it to me, then,” he said with his mouth full. 

“You wish.”

He was just as nervous as they drove to Yuri’s apartment, and then past it, and up Prospekt Medikov to the grocery store. Yuri had declared that he wanted pelmeni for dinner, but they needed the ingredients for dough, and so Yuri drove them regardless of Otabek’s agreement or not. 

The grocery store was huge - larger than the one Otabek went to in Almaty. Yuri buzzed up and down the aisles, often glancing over his shoulder with a scrunched look on his face. He filled his basket with all kinds of items that weren’t necessary for pelmeni - he bought bananas and oranges, bread, cans of soup, milk, and a bottle of soy sauce all before getting the flour he had

come in for. He chattered away, up and down the wide rows of food, and let Otabek fall behind. 

He moved with grace and style, like he was putting on a show for the peasants of Saint Petersburg lucky enough to be in his presence. 

“I think some wine for tonight, too?” Yuri said, once again over his shoulder. He picked up a bottle off the shelf and shook it at Otabek like he would shake a cat toy at Potya. 

“Get red, not white.” 

“Alright,” Yuri said with a grin. 

Back in the apartment, Yuri exploded. The groceries went on the thrifted, dark wood dining table while pelmeni dough got rolled out on the freshly washed-down countertop. Yuri got flour in his hair and up to his elbows while he simultaneously ground meat and herbs together for filling. An egg landed on the floor, cracking open violently. Otabek tried to help but when Yuri got into something there was little much anyone could do to slow him down. Watching him work, brow furrowed, baby hairs slipping free of his pony tail, made Otabek wish he knew anything about cooking. 

Otabek watched without taking his eyes off Yuri, just as he had in the parking lot days earlier. Here, there was no apprehension, no question of his stability. Yuri simply worked. Gradually, the kitchen began to smell like warm dough and meat. The heat of the oven radiated towards Otabek and dishes clinked together as Yuri got their meal ready. A full glass of wine was passed to him and he accepted it readily. 

Otabek couldn’t help but get a thrill as Yuri perched on the counter, hovering above him, even taller than normal. Backlit from the window, and with blonde wisps of hair like a halo that he continually brushed out of his face, he was beautiful. Otabek often found no other word to describe Yuri. Where others saw anger, Otabek saw a frustrated desire to be seen for just who he was. 

It was something Otabek had always identified with, even back when they were just kids at summer camp. Now though, as a nearly grown man, he didn’t want to just compete or compare, he wanted to reach out and touch him, to grab his hand or his face, or to slip in between his legs and consume him. He felt something terrible for Yuri. 

“I’m happy you came, Beks, even though you made me wait,” Yuri said, looking down at Otabek from the counter. He hopped down, and walked to the living room without a glance. 

Joining him, Yuri’s hand nearly hit Otabek’s on the way down. They sat almost thigh to thigh. 

The TV cast a blue-white static haze on Yuri that brought out the bags under his eyes, heavy for just nineteen. They made Yuri look older than he was - tired from something more serious than a long day. Yuri always said he had no reason to complain because the things he had he had by working, and some people couldn’t work. Otabek had thought it wise at the time, but now he knew Yuri was working not just for himself but all the other Plisetskies in the world, which seemed very unfair.

“So your Grandfather’s rent went up?”

“Yeah. Fuckin’ slumlords, you know?”

The way Yuri looked at Otabek made him shiver. His eyes, still shining in the TV light gave him the once-over, running up and down his body. Otabek felt very much like a specimen under a scientist's pin and glass the more Yuri spoke to him. Yuri leaned in, maybe a little bit tipsy, and spoke louder and louder. He was excited, and so he got up and paced. 

Where he moved, the light of the TV flickered on and off Otabek’s face. Yuri, backlit and moving, continued to speak. 

“We’re driving again tomorrow, right?” Yuri asked. 

“Unless you have other plans,” Otabek said. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back onto the edge of the couch. 

“I’m taking us somewhere.” 

Otabek opened one eye and peeked at Yuri, still standing in front of the blue light of the TV. Light crept around his face and body, trying to swallow him. 

“We’re gonna go someplace special,” Yuri continued. He had a gentle smile on his face, just small enough that Otabek wasn’t sure if he was imagining it or not. 

Otabek hummed his response. Yuri regularly hatched little plans in his head, trying to surprise people. He was both impulsive and extremely kind to those he cared about, which often landed his friends in new locations courtesy of Yuri’s wallet. If Otabek had to guess they would probably be going down to the Leningrad Zoo, just a few minute’s drive from Yuri’s door, to look at the tigers and lions. 

Nothing he hadn’t done with Yuri before. 

 

* * *

 

“Get up, asshole!” 

Otabek opened his eyes to see Yuri looming above him, a nightmare in all black, jeans torn at the knees and leopard print high tops already on his feet. 

“We gotta fuckin’ go!” 

“When are you going to learn to wake me up before you get ready?” Otabek grumbled. He pawed at his own eyes at sat up in the bed, head feeling fuzzy. 

“When you learn to be a morning person,” Yuri retorted. 

Yuri made breakfast (blini with fresh fruit because he was a good, kind man) while Otabek got ready. He pulled on his bike boots while Yuri wiped cream away from his mouth and he tried his hardest not to stare. It was too early to feel anything warm in his stomach. But the way Yuri stretched, lifting his shirt up above his waistband made Otabek’s hands sweat. 

Yuri, clearly in a hurry, shifted his weight from leg to leg in the kitchen as he waited for Otabek to finish his breakfast. He paced his apartment, backpack in his arms heavy and bulging. When Otabek finished eating Yuri hauled him up and out of his chair and pushed him down and out of the doorway. He stomped down the hallway and took the stairs two at a time. 

He gunned the engine of the bike in the garage and beckoned Otabek to sit down. He sat upright, waiting for Otabek’s arms to slip around him and once they were in place Yuri peeled out, loud and guttural, onto the street. 

The sun warmed the back of Otabek’s neck as they drove in the opposite direction of the zoo he thought they were going to. Yuri took them across the bridge, farther than they had ever driven before, and into the city center. He lurched as they stopped and started too fast as the lights changed, still not quite used to driving. Otabek’s throat still felt tight as their turns were too fast, too sharp. He had always thought himself to be a sensible driver, someone who respected the power of a bike, and he had hoped that would rub off on Yuri should Yuri ever learn. 

Clearly, he thought to himself, he was wrong. 

Yuri took them through the middle of Saint Petersburg and out into the more traditionally residential areas. They passed smaller and smaller buildings, and then homes and schools and playgrounds. Otabek watched as Saint Petersburg passed him by, all with his head resting on Yuri’s back. He adjusted his grip on Yuri’s stomach, scooching himself closer and houses zipped by him. 

For a moment, Otabek closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of Yuri’s steady heartbeat under his hands as they rode down residential streets. In the darkness he drifted, listening to the engine hum, the sun hot on them both. 

Yuri took a hard right, and began to slow even more, and Otabek opened his eyes. They were in a parking lot not unlike the one they had practiced in. This lot, though, was half full of cars and surrounded by trees, full of green leaves rustling in the rind. 

A shabby, grey, industrial-looking building stood at the end of the lot. Yuri parked at the other end, forcing them to walk towards the entrance of the building. Kids and their parents milled about the front door though Yuri didn’t seem surprised that his destination was full of children. Instead, he stepped around the kids and their worrying mothers, animal print sneakers making no sound while Otabek’s steps were heavier and clumsier. 

They had stepped into an ice rink. Only it was nothing like the perfection of Yubileyny. The boards surrounding the ice were chipped, the bleachers were empty, and the ice looked like it hadn’t been zambonied in more than a few days. The rink was frigid, colder than it needed to be, causing Otabek to shiver as he walked behind Yuri. 

Rinks, ultimately, were the same. The smelled artificial and of leather polish and sweat, music came through speakers on the ceilings, and there was always the faint line of a hockey game painted into the ice. Even private rinks had public hours, a fact Otabek often fought with when he wanted extra time to practice, trying to zip around children that stared at him wide-eyed and in the way.  

Yuri quietly paid both of their admission but declined to pick out skates. He slipped around the booth and walked up to the rink boards, dropped his backpack, and laid his arms out to rest. 

The roof of the rink they were in arched high above them, and windows lined most of the walls, letting sunshine in. It came in such a way that Otabek could see the rays themselves, broken up by dust and air current, and the occasional child skating confidently across the grooved ice.  

“Shouldn’t we have skates?” Otabek asked. His pitched his voice low, not wanting to disturb the quiet mood Yuri had settled into. 

“We do have skates. I stole yours last night.” Yuri nudged the bag at his feet with the heel of his shoe. 

Yuri pulled away from the board and sat on the threadbare carpet. He yanked the zipper on his bag and pulled out their skates, offering Otabek’s up. 

“Yuri, why are we here?”   


Yuri smiled up at him, a little like the way he had smiled last night. 

Otabek stumbled onto the ice, barely catching himself, once the started. Yuri seemed confident enough, though he usually did. Even as his blade cut over grooves his lines remained long and clean in ways Otabek knew he would never achieve. Other skaters moved out of Yuri’s way. They might not recognize his face but they could surely recognize his skill. 

As they circled each other Otabek could feel Yuri’s eyes on him, again, like in the living room. Part of him believed this was still part of last night with the way Yuri smiled at him. He was too warm, too distracted, and hazy in the beams of sunlight. 

Yuri skated close and changed direction without thinking, he skated back and front, did singles, twizzles, and spins. They didn’t speak. Yuri always said he did his best communicating through dance. 

Otabek went round and round while Yuri cut across, dodging children and adults at his leisure. 

“Yuri, why are we here?” Otabek asked again when they got close enough to speak. 

Yuri smiled at him. 

“You know why.” 

He turned and skated away. For him, all of this energy was a warm up, but Otabek was already feeling a burning in his legs. What he would do for Katsuki’s stamina now just so he could keep up with his friend, who seemed to be possessed. Yuri’s face was open, eyebrows apart, eyes up, a grin across his face. It was so unlike his normal skating face that Otabek was sure there might be something wrong with Yuri. 

Instead, Yuri just continued to smile as he skated back and forth, completing disjointed elements to the pop music coming through the dusty speakers. 

From across the ice Otabek watched Yuri push his hair behind his ear. 

He skated close enough to speak again. 

“So, when I was eleven, and officially moved to Saint Petersburg to skate with Yakov, I was really fucking nervous,” he said, declining to answer Otabek’s question. “I was going to be skating with  _ Viktor Nikiforov _ and  _ Georgi Popovich  _ and all these other fucks. The best coach in the entire world was going to be mine. I wanted the whole world to see who I was but, I realized, that meant a lot of pressure was on me.” 

He stood still as he spoke, but he panted between words.

“So I was really scared, right, and Dedushka wanted to calm me down, so he looked this place up and took me.” 

Yuri fussed with his hair again. 

“He got me these God-awful rentals that tore open my feet because he didn’t want me to damage my real skates that he had just paid for, and made me go out on the ice. He said,” Yuri lowered his voice into a gruff imitation of Nikolai, “‘Now you can’t say you haven’t skated in Saint Petersburg’ which didn’t make any sense but he said it so confidently that I believed him.” 

“That was nice of your grandfather,” Otabek replied. Yuri looked gentle, almost open before him, void of the nervous energy he had just displayed, and Otabek didn’t want to step on his toes even though he didn’t quite understand the meaning of the story. 

“I was so afraid of making a fool of myself my first day at Yubileyny but I kept reminding myself that it was just ice, the same shit I had fallen on thousand times before.” 

Yuri cocked his head to the side, waiting for Otabek to understand whatever it was he was trying to say. 

Otabek fidgeted, at a loss for words. 

Yuri slid forward a little, into Otabek’s air. A trickle of sweat went down the back of his neck.

“I’m trying to say that I’m not afraid anymore. It’s my answer.” 

Otabek’s breath caught in his throat, not unlike the way it did the first time Yuri took a turn on the pavement too fast. 

Yuri leaned down, ever so slightly, and kissed Otabek so gently he almost didn’t feel it.

“You wanna go for a run when we get home?” Yuri asked, looking down at Otabek from where he stood, a hair’s breadth away. 

“Okay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter was so late! Work trouble plus a wedding last weekend......hope the anticipation was worth it (:


	9. Yuri's Place (An Afternoon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek drove them home as fast as the suburban Russian speed limit would allow. Yuri clung onto him tightly, arms squeezing his middle uncomfortably. Gone was the heat of the sun on his back, the warm breeze of outside, and in its place was Yuri’s body surrounding his own from the back seat of the bike. He remembered Barcelona and how it felt to have Yuri touch him for the first time. They were young then.

Otabek drove them home as fast as the suburban Russian speed limit would allow. Yuri clung onto him tightly, arms squeezing his middle uncomfortably. Gone was the heat of the sun on his back, the warm breeze of outside, and in its place was Yuri’s body surrounding his own from the back seat of the bike. He remembered Barcelona and how it felt to have Yuri touch him for the first time. They were young then. 

Buildings flashed past them on the trip home. They grew from houses to apartment buildings to skyscrapers. The Russian Orthodox churches and schoolyards were abandoned for businesses and high rises. 

Otabek hastily parked in the garage under Yuri’s building. He instantly missed the feeling of Yuri’s arms around him as Yuri slipped off the bike. There was some kind of energy between them, humming, and Yuri’s grin alone pulled Otabek into the building and up the stars and down the hallway. 

Inside Yuri’s apartment Otabek let out a sigh of relief. With the door closed it was just he, and Yuri, and the revelation that maybe things would turn out okay for them alone in the silent entryway. 

“Yuri,” Otabek started to speak but Yuri had other ideas, it seemed. 

Yuri, face all determination, took Otabek by the hand and led him over to the couch. This time, his kiss was surer, stronger. Their teeth bumped a little in Otabek’s haste to open his mouth. He allowed Yuri in without a second thought. 

Yuri’s hair was softer than he expected. His face, though, was rougher from where he hadn’t shaved. 

Yuri’s hands found Otabek’s face, and then his neck, and down on top of his shirt. Where he touched Otabek felt warmth bloom, like Yuri was ten degrees hotter than he should have been. 

Otabek, more or less in Yuri’s lap, shifted their joined weight, pressing Yuri into the back of the couch. He touched at Yuri’s shirt hem, quietly begging the garment be removed. Yuri didn’t need much prodding. He pulled it off over his head with little struggle. 

Objectively, Otabek knew what Yuri looked like without clothes on. They’d been shirtless around each other, and Otabek had seen Yuri in a bathing suit two summers ago, as well as on the internet. He could piece together what Yuri’s body looked like from all kinds of scraps of information if he needed to. He’d tried to, in the past. But seeing Yuri here, like this, was different. 

He was skinnier than most skaters, but lean, and stronger than expected. He was pale, too, almost white under Otabek’s tan hands. His chest was pink a little, around his collar bones. He had a scar on his side from an emergency appendectomy, and freckles on his shoulders. 

With an ache in his chest that he couldn’t quite identify, Otabek wanted to kiss him. He realized he could. 

Yuri’s skin was salty with sweat from skating and from driving. He smelled like deodorant.

_ “He’s perfect.”  _ Otabek thought. 

Otabek, from his position above Yuri, was able to lean down and graze his teeth against Yuri’s neck. He could feel Yuri’s Adam’s apple bob as he hummed a little with pleasure. Otabek’s hand moved down from Yuri’s shoulder to his chest, brushing over one of his nipples, and down to his stomach. He could feel little blonde hairs beneath his fingertip as he reached down past Yuri’s belly button. 

Otabek had pressed Yuri into the back of the couch. He loomed above Yuri, nearly covering him with his own body. His boots hung stupidly off the edge of the couch as he tried to wrap Yuri up in his arms and kiss him at the same time. Holding him this close Otabek could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted so much more. 

Yuri pulled back from Otabek’s mouth and spoke against his cheek, lips grazing Otabek’s skin. 

“Can I take my pants off, too?” 

Otabek grinned. “I got you.” 

Otabek reluctantly shifted downwards, peeling himself off of Yuri’s body. His boots hit the hardwood floor and made the glass of the coffee table rattle as he shoved one of the legs. He pushed the table back, making it grind against the floor. Otabek swiped his hair out of his face with a shaking hand and undid Yuri’s jeans. The zip was cold against his fingers but he could feel Yuri, hard, underneath his hand, which made his breath catch a little in his throat.

It had been a while since he’d had a partner, and even longer since he had been this worked up from just the idea of getting closer to one. 

Otabek pulled Yuri’s pants down, leaving just his black boxer briefs up against his pale skin. Otabek yanked Yuri’s shoes off, too, and settled himself between Yuri’s now bare legs. 

He kissed Yuri’s inner thigh gently, making him flinch. He ran his hand up from his knee to his hip, squeezing his muscle ever so slightly underneath his palm. He kissed Yuri again, open-mouthed, against his other leg. Yuri moved his legs apart and when Otabek looked up he saw Yuri’s chin tilted back, one hand flung over the top of the couch too. His other rested against his chest, where he rubbed at himself. 

His belly felt warm, like the heat from Yuri’s skin had leached into him as he went down on his knees. 

He worked slowly, alternating kisses between legs while he held onto Yuri’s hips. His fingertips dipped below Yuri’s underwear, as if he was searching for more warmth. 

“What are you doing?” Yuri breathed into the air. His face was still tilted upwards.

“Exactly what I want,” Otabek responded, mumbling into Yuri’s skin, which had turned bitten red and blue from Otabek’s mouth. 

Yuri wriggled underneath him but Otabek had no intention of moving the moment along any faster. Nothing was going to make him unbury his nose from Yuri’s parted legs or make him stop tasting Yuri’s skin. On the floor with his head bowed, reverant, he was reminded of watching men go down to their knees in Central Mosque. 

If just the touch of Yuri’s hand on him made him heat up, then dragging the cotton of Yuri’s underwear down was like stepping into the flames. Otabek’s face flushed and he wet his lips with his tongue but they still felt dry. He pressed his face into Yuri’s lap. He had to lean forward to do it, to lift himself off the heels of his boots to get leverage. With one last drag of his hands over Yuri’s soft skin he opened his mouth to allow him in. 

Yuri exhaled above him. 

While he bobbed his head Otabek flicked his eyes upwards. Yuri sat in a patch of sun. His head was back and his mouth was open slightly. His breathing quickened as Otabek worked, swallowing down bitter precome. The nasty taste was worth it, Otabek thought to himself, just to be able to see Yuri bathed in yellow light, pale and bright against the black leather couch. 

Otabek, still fully dressed, took Yuri apart bit by bit. Yuri panted and rolled his hips, looking for more, and Otabek did his best to accommodate. 

Yuri didn’t last long, coming with a little whimper, instead of a bang. His cheeks were red when he looked down at Otabek, blonde hair catching the sun where it moved. 

 

* * *

 

“You said we could go for a run,” Yuri yelled from the open door of his bedroom. He stood, unabashedly naked, in Otabek’s sightline and looked around his feet for clothes as he spoke. 

“Yeah, sure,” Otabek responded. 

He was still dressed from their drive, in jeans and his jacket, and his mouth still tasted like Yuri. 

Once dressed, they stepped into the hallway together, ready for their usual trip down to Yubileyny and back. 

Yuri looked sideways at Otabek. “What, do you want to hold my hand?” He grinned as he spoke. 

“Fuck off.”

Yuri didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached out with his right and grabbed Otabek’s left. 

“I’d like to, if that’s okay.” He was still smiling as he spoke, but the expression was softer, a little bit more honest. 

Their hands remained linked only for the length of the hallway and the stairs. Yuri slipped free of Otabek’s grasp to pull his sunglasses down over his face before they were off on their run down Prozpekt Medikov. 

Otabek worked hard to keep up with Yuri. He was no longer interested in trailing behind, in watching Yuri’s ponytail swing in front of him. He matched pace, matched their breathing, and kept them going down to Yubileyny. The length of their run through Yuri’s part of the city had shortened in the few days Otabek had been there as they got more comfortable with the turns and lights and traffic patterns. Now, staring at the Sports Palace in what felt like no time at all a part of Otabek wished they had taken a different route. 

“You know Yakov hates outsiders in his rink,” Otabek panted. 

They stood next to each other outside the back end of the building. Yuri stretched upwards and leaned back, showing off the slice of skin between his shirt and pants as his back popped. 

“He’s gonna have to like you now that you’re, like, my boyfriend or whatever. He liked Katsuki enough.” Yuri spoke casually, as if he hadn’t sent an arrow into Otabek’s stomach at the word  _ boyfriend. _

“Are we boyfriends, then?” Otabek asked. He swallowed after he spoke - he felt nervous even though he knew, logically, there was no reason to be. 

Yuri’s head snapped down from where he had been stretching up to the sun.  “Yeah. Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asked. 

Otabek moved his sunglasses from his face to the top of his head and eyed Yuri up and down. 

“Yes.”   


“Then why are you being weird?” Yuri countered. 

Yuri stretched down to his toes, easily touching the concrete with his palms. Then, without a second of hesitation, he turned on his heel and began to run up the street they had just come down, forcing Otabek to chase for the first city block. 

“Hey,” Yuri yelled, turning and jogging backwards. “Let’s go to one of the parks around here tomorrow. We can go when I get back from my meeting. Make up for the fact that we can’t hang out in the morning.”

Otabek refused to chase any longer. 

“Okay,” he answered, running ahead. What Yuri had in height and energy Otabek made up for in pure strength. He stepped ahead of Yuri and, with a smile no one could see, quickened their pace. It was time for Yuri to chase him home for once, he decided. 

 

* * *

 

At Yuri’s home, some things changed and some things remained the same. They cooked dinner together that night. Yuri scrounged rice and with the leftover meat from the previous night’s pelmeni made plov, a little plain, but well enough. They ate from large bowls on the couch, thigh to thigh, as they played games on Yuri’s huge TV. 

Oil from the meat and rice made Yuri’s lips shine in a way that was, if Otabek was honest with himself, gross, but he still put his hand under Yuri’s chin and kissed him on more than one occasion. Yuri complained that Otabek was cheating as he died, repeatedly as he was kissed, but Otabek pointed out that Yuri never refused the kisses. Yuri didn’t respond, turning pink instead. 

Otabek did the dishes because he knew Yuri wouldn’t. Yuri sat on the counter and watched, humming to songs playing through his beat-up phone, as Otabek got his hands wet. As the dishes came clean he became more and more aware of Yuri’s eyes on him. He didn’t like the feeling of being stared at, even if it was Yuri doing the staring. 

When he finished and turned to stare back, Yuri smirked. 

“Are we gonna sleep in my room or not?” 

Something unfurled in Otabek’s chest. 

“That sounds fine.” 

Yuri’s casual inquiry belied his sideways glance as he walked to the door of his bedroom. Otabek’s heart jumped in his chest as he walked behind Yuri a second late. Otabek had seen many parts of Yuri’s room and, in the same way he had pieced together Yuri’s body in his head, he could figure out the landscape of Yuri Plisetsky’s Bedroom if he had to. He’d seen parts of it through video calls, Snapchat, Instagram, and an open door. But he had never stepped foot inside. For his ostentatious personality, ultimately, Yuri could be very private about certain things. Otabek, of all people, respected that. 

His suspicions about the cleanliness of Yuri’s bedroom was immediately confirmed - clothes, stuffed cats, and other byproducts of life as an internationally ranked figure skater and pretty alright college student lay on the floor. A stack of textbooks sat in one corner, separated by papers and folders. Yuri’s laptop was open on his desk, next to a closed maths textbook. 

A few framed photos sat on the upper shelf of Yuri’s desk, including, he noticed, one of the two of them together. It was next to a photo of a tiny, five or six year old blond child standing between a young Nikolai Plisetsky and a twenty-something woman Otabek didn’t recognize but could guess the identity of. 

Yuri’s bed was pressed into one corner, so when Yuri sat on the edge of it and tugged his shirt off Otabek was left standing in the middle of the room, a little lost on what to do. 

“I already invited you in, man.” Yuri eyed him from the bed. He was shirtless again. 

Otabek stepped forward, still feeling trepidation despite Yuri’s offering. He sat on the bed next to Yuri and mirrored his motions, pulling off his shirt, and then his shoes, and socks. Yuri slid his pants off. So did Otabek. 

Otabek leaned over and kissed Yuri on his mouth. He still tasted like rice. 

They sat on the edge of the bed like that for a while, just kissing. Otabek knew it was obvious he was aroused but he tried not to feel embarrassed about it; he knew Yuri was, too. 

“I’m not tired,” Yuri said, barely breaking their kiss. He deepened it, after, like he was encouraging Otabek to read into something. Otabek wasn't about to question the invitation. 

Otabek hooked his hands in Yuri’s waistband and pulled his underwear off and then mirrored the action on himself. Laying back on his bed, Yuri looked magnificent. Blonde hair spilled out around him and his eyes were glittering in the should-be-unflattering overhead light. 

“Do you have - ,” Otabek asked. 

“Uh huh,” Yuri answered, pointing to his bedside table. 

Otabek reached over Yuri, happily noting how Yuri’s eyes lingered a little on his chest as he moved. In the drawer he found condoms, and lube, and a few other things he would have to investigate later. 

Yuri looked up at him expectantly. 

Otabek took no time to wait. He bent and kissed Yuri again while pouring a little bit of the lube on his fingers. He moved his mouth down to Yuri’s chest, eliciting a sigh of pleasure from him while Otabek reached down and pressed a finger inside of his friend, no, his boyfriend. 

Yuri spread his legs and shifted his hips upwards. He was smiling a little as Otabek took turns between the sides of his chest, and his collarbones, and his neck, one hand on the mattress and the other between his legs. 

Every groan from Yuri’s lips spurred Otabek on. He was well aware of his own aches but he wasn’t ready to act quite yet. Not when Yuri was wriggling underneath him, fist in his mouth as if it muffled anything. 

Otabek hauled Yuri up onto his shoulders, gravity pulling at Yuri’s legs until his knees hit his chest. 

“Hey!” He squealed as he was forcibly shifted against his bed sheets. 

Otabek said nothing at Yuri’s cries. Instead, he withdrew his middle finger and replaced it with his mouth. 

Yuri shuddered underneath him, and yelled, and Otabek silently apologized to the middle aged woman he knew lived next door. She watched Potya sometimes. She was nice and didn’t deserve what she was probably hearing. Still, he mouthed at Yuri all he wanted. 

Yuri struggled in his arms but Otabek held tight. As he added fingers Yuri graduated to full yells. 

“Why are you so good at oral?” Yuri panted.

Otabek pulled away from Yuri’s ass to answer, “I date girls.” 

Yuri laughed at him and scrambled free from his grasp. 

“I’m ready, you fuck.” 

Otabek smiled to himself as he fished around in the sheets for the condom he had grabbed out of Yuri’s drawer. The sound of foil tearing blended in with Yuri touching himself, a little  _ shk-shk _ of skin on skin. He unfurled the condom and leant forward, eyes meeting Yuri’s. Yuri smirked at him, knowingly, and pulled his legs back. 

Otabek looked down at where they were about to meet. 

Yuri began, “Come on, boyf-.”

At the same time, words tumbled out of Otabek’s mouth, “How many men have you been with?” 

Slowly, cautiously, Yuri lowered his legs, planting his feet on the bed. 

Otabek met Yuri’s eyes again, only now the glint of humor was gone. 

“Are you seriously going to be weird that you’re not the one taking my precious virginity?” Yuri asked. He sounded mad, and guarded, and Otabek cringed at himself. His stomach twisted. 

“I’m sorry - it just came out. I didn’t mean…,” he fumbled. 

Yuri sighed. “Maybe we should do this another time.” He stood at that, and slipped out of the bedroom, leaving Otabek alone, still hard, and at a loss for words. 


	10. Yuri, Alone (The Morning)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing about Otabek was that for a long time Yuri believed he could do anything. But even though he had long since accepted the humanity of Otabek Altin, seeing him falter made Yuri take a deep breath. He knew Otabek had made a mistake and was probably embarrassed himself but that didn’t mean his feelings weren’t still hurt. He didn’t know what that meant about their relationship.

Yuri had come back to bed after his exit, but he had slipped into the sheets quietly, without greeting, and they had fallen asleep like that. Otabek hadn’t been in any mind to question Yuri again, not after his mistake. Instead, he lay awake that night getting kicked by Yuri in his sleep. He recalled his trip up to the city and how he had thought Yuri’s fitfulness cute from the back of his bike and cursed himself as Yuri’s elbow landed in his side. Otabek slept, eventually, nearly pressed against the warm-from-his-own-body-heat wall of the apartment with Yuri snoring gently in his ear. 

He woke up to an empty bed. The space next to him was cold when he rolled over into it as he tried to stretch. Memories of the night previous came crashing back to him, making him run his hand down his face. 

_ “Good fucking job you asshole.”  _

His head was swimming from oversleeping but he pulled himself out of Yuri’s bed, albeit with a groan. He supposed he had to show his face eventually and, as his coach always said, there was no time but the present. 

Otabek steeled himself before slipping into sweats and walking into the kitchen, where he saw...no one. 

_ “Oh, right,”  _ Otabek remembered.  _ “Yuri’s meeting.” _

 

* * *

 

Yuri threw himself across the ice. As he set up for the triple - gain speed, set up, toe pick, hope for the fucking best - Otabek’s little furrowed brow popped into his head again. He fell on his ass, sliding down a meter or so across the ice. Sighing, he accepted God’s punishment, and splayed out, starfish-like. 

He stared upwards at the ceiling of Yubileyny and tried very hard to ignore the grating shk-shk-shk of Yakov skating over to him. His bald head appeared in his line of sight, obstructing the beautiful and calming fluorescent lights, one of which was flickering in a lovely, seizure-inducing kind of way. 

“I thought Mr. Altin would be joining us, Yurotchka.” Yakov offered a hand to Yuri and pulled him up to a sitting position. Yuri’s head spun a little. 

“He’s probably still asleep.” Yuri said as he struggled to his feet. 

Yuri declined to explain where exactly Otabek would be sleeping. Yakov had had enough of a heart attack with The Old Man and Katsuki. The ISU had come down on them hard enough and that was even after The Old Man had said he only intended to skate for another year or two despite Katsuki’s incessant wibbling about it. Not that Yuri was comparing Them and Himself. 

Yuri sped off, going around the rink to cool down from his fall. He didn’t fall often but when he did it tended to be hard. 

Last night flashed through his head and he took one more lap. Laying back in his own bed, for once, ready and excited, handsome new boyfriend above him, managing to give him everything he wanted right before completely barfing it. Yuri’s face felt hot with embarrassment as he thought about it. 

_ “How many men have you been with?” _

If it had been any of Otabek’s business, he would have answered. Then again, maybe it  _ was  _ Otabek’s business. He’d had sex - including unprotected sex - with other people. A good partner was up front about that, right? Or maybe a good partner just got an STD screening and shut up about it. Was Otabek a good partner for asking? Yuri had only had one capital-p Partner before and Dmitri hadn’t been the best kind of person so he didn’t have much to go off of. 

Maybe a good partner dragged Yakov into his office and asked for The Talk. 

Yuri shuddered to himself and took another lap. 

The thing about Otabek was that for a long time Yuri believed he could do anything. But even though he had long since accepted the humanity of Otabek Altin, seeing him falter made Yuri take a deep breath. He knew Otabek had made a mistake and was probably embarrassed himself but that didn’t mean his feelings weren’t still hurt. He didn’t know what that meant about their relationship. 

Yuri began to set himself up for another triple, but he fucked it up, and fell again. 

 

* * *

 

Yuri examined the beginnings of his bruise in the locker room mirror. He could already see where the crest of his hip was darkening. He had always bruised easily, much to his annoyance, as his job required him to hit ice. Victor had told him once, _ “If you want to get big you gotta learn how to fall” _ . Small, impressionable Yuri had taken that to heart. Now, stood in the shower and prodding at his skin he wished his younger self had learned to tell Victor to fuck off a little earlier. 

He brushed his hair out of his eyes and turned the knob of the shower. The spluttering water felt good on his sore muscles and, with his eyes closed, he managed to relax for the first time since last night. Otabek’s dumb face appeared in his mind again. He tried to wipe it away but Otabek’s image persisted inside Yuri’s mind like a song stuck in his head. A constant beat - eyes, hair, hands - ran through his mind. 

Wanting relief from Brain-Beka, Yuri opened his eyes and fell against the wall of the shower stall, and sighed. He grabbed his shampoo and washed the day’s sweat out of his hair and tried to relax the knots of tension in the muscles of his back as he cleaned himself with body wash. It didn’t work much, but it felt good, so he kept doing it until the water of the shower ran cold. 

He dressed himself in silence, shoving his athletic gear back into his bag along with his skates and pulled out the suit he had hanging in his assigned locker.

As part of the deal he had with the government to sponsor him he had to meet with people from the Ministry of Sport fairly often. Although he had gone to these meetings twice a year, every year, for the past five years, they always scared him. Yakov came sometimes.This instance would be Yuri, alone, with all the dumbass business people that determined his (and therefore, his family’s) worth. 

Yuri threw his tie around his shoulders and walked over to a mirror and pinned his damp hair back. It would dry weird, he knew, but he didn’t have time to take care of it properly. 

Yuri knew he looked weird on the train in a designer suit and a beat up athletic bag. He knew the girls across from him half-recognized him from TV and were googling “blonde Yuri athlete”, trying to figure out who he was from the information they could remember. He knew he was wrinkling his pants. 

Yuri turned his music up louder and looked down at his shoes. The right one was scuffed. Yuri counted the stops instead of paying attention. He spent his time listening to his music and staring at his scuffed shoe and deciding whether he should skip over the tracks Otabek made since they were in a fight. 

The question followed him off the train and down the city street. The day was nice and, had he and Otabek not been fighting, he would be excited for their run later in the afternoon. That was, if Otabek still wanted to go. 

He was early to the restaurant, stopping awkwardly in the entrance. He didn’t know who’s name the table would be under. 

“Uh, Plisetsky?” He asked to the lady, who eyed his gym bag. 

“Sorry.”

“Kuznetsov?” He tried again, giving the last name of a woman he knew from the Kremlin. She was mean and knew nothing about figure skating, but she more or less controlled how much money he was awarded every year. She would probably be here. 

The lady nodded and brought Yuri over to a (thankfully) empty table where he was able to stuff his gym bag under his chair where, maybe, it wouldn’t be spotted. 

He hadn’t intended to have it with him when the meeting had been scheduled. He had noble, not selfish at all intentions of sleeping in and enjoying the company of his (at the time) best friend before having his value determined like a cow at auction. Unfortunately for him, after last night, he had just wanted to leave his apartment and clear his head at the rink. So here he was, in an upscale restaurant in a suit that cost too much money for him to really justify considering all the other Plisetskies he fed, waiting for Natalia Mikhailovna Kuznetsov, a woman he despised, while his dirty bag sat on the floor. 

And he was still thinking about Otabek. 

Yuri fiddled with the silverware in front of him, eyeing his reflection in the bend of a spoon. 

_ “That’ll do, I guess.”  _

One of Otabek’s songs beat in his head over the tinkling elevator music the restaurant was playing. He tapped his foot to the sound he could hear, half to the beat and half from the anxiety these meetings always gave him. Yuri flipped over his phone and cleared away his notifications. There were no texts or calls that he had missed, and nothing important was showing up in any mentions. Still, he felt disconnected, like he was missing something while he was stuffed into a white and silver restaurant, waiting for his fate. 

He sat back in his chair and huffed. Just like Otabek to get into his head with that questions, to make him think in circles. Just like him, too, to try and skate out his problems and fail. He’d probably be angry at the rink for the next three days working his issues out before he got over it. But he knew he would, eventually, move on, like he did with all of his other problems. Leave them in the dust, forgotten, ready to get over new problems. So the pain in his chest annoyed him. 

Yuri looked around, trying for a new distraction from the song in his head. 

The walls of the restaurant were white. So were the wood window frames, and the table clothes, and the chairs. Bright light made the room washed out. The only color came from patron’s suits and business-appropriate dresses - all in shades of gray and black and navy. Yuri glanced down at his own suit, in plum, and accepted that he stuck out a little bit. He sat, scowling, and waited. 

“Yuri. A pleasure.” A woman’s voice came from behind him, starling him. He turned left while Natalia walked around his right, making him turn in the other direction to see her. 

“Natalia Mikhailovna,” He answered. She insisted on being addressed with her patronym, even though it was old fashioned, and she looked only to be in her forties. It had been the first clue Yuri had gotten as to her personality. Self important. 

Yuri shook her hand, limp in his, and sat down across from her. 

“No one else will be joining us. Just you and I, today,” she said as she looked at a water spot on one of the forks in front of her. Her hair was pulled back tight in a bun, making her angular face even more severe. Despite the similarity in looks to Lilia, Yuri had never warmed to Natalia Mikhailovna like he had to his mentor. 

A waiter, filling water glasses, interrupted them. She watched him, black eyes boring holes into his skull. 

“So, Yuri,’ she began. “How is the season treating you?” 

Yuri wasn’t sure if she watched or not, if questions like that were meant for a real answer or to test him against the “correct” answer she had made up for herself. 

“Well, I won’t have a competition again until September. Training is going well.” Yuri answered, trying to keep his smile light. Under the table, though, he clenched his hands. 

Natalia Mikhailovna smiled at him, seemingly not caring about the pressure Yuri was feeling. She offered no respite from her questions, just barreling through them as she ordered, and drank water, and managed to keep her bright red lipstick perfectly in place. Yuri stared at her wondering if that was, maybe, the real color of her mouth. 

The food in front of him was tasteless and thick in his mouth. Yuri managed to always take a bite just as Natalia Mikhailovna wanted an answer from him. He chewed, and tried to swallow, and ignored his heart beating in his chest. 

His mind was split, half still on Otabek, and half desperately trying to get him to focus on the woman in from of him. He tried looking at her eyes instead of her mouth, but it didn’t help, not when her eyes were so dark and intense that he could feel her looking. 

“Your plans for the fall? Still in school, Yuri?” She smiled at him. 

Yuri swallowed his food as he choked out his answer. “Yeah.” 

Natalia Mikhailova raised her perfectly tweezed eyebrows at him. 

“It’s going well. I like it more than the tutoring program I did for high school.” Yuri continued. “It’s nice to be around more than the same three people all the time.” 

“Remind me what you study.” 

“Literature.” 

Natalia Mikhailova put her cutlery down and looked through Yuri again. The woman didn’t blink. She was an inhuman monstrosity dreamed up by the Kremlin, in some Moscow lab, and she had been made just to make Yuri sweat. He didn’t sweat for judges, or for Yakov, or anyone else. But he sweat for Natalia Mikhailovna. She kept Dedushka in housing if Yuri really thought about it, which he didn’t like to do too often. 

“Why?” She asked. 

Yuri wanted to scream. Why anything? Why skating? Why Otabek? Why any of the decisions he had made? Why did this woman give a single fuck about what he was studying in university so long as he still earned a certain percentage of gold medals and brought glory to the Motherland. 

Yuri set down his fork and knife. He looked up from his half eaten diet-plan approved plain chicken and salad and huffed. 

“I read a lot as a kid. It still interests me.” A canned answer, one he would have put in an admissions essay had he not been able to write  _ What It’s Like to Win Silver in Pyeongchang (And then Gold at Worlds).  _ But it was also the truth boiled down. Void of the sad parts he didn’t want to talk about ( _ “I read a lot as a kid, since I had no friends, and wanted to know what it was like to feel love from more than one person.” _ ). 

Natalia Mikhailovna hummed. Whether she was satisfied or not, he didn’t know. 

The questions from her never stopped, even when her salad had been cleared. It was always like this with her, but usually there was someone else from the Kremlin, or Yakov, to break the tension once in a while. Here, right now, it was just her black eyes and the white walls of the restaurant. 

When she released him, saying goodbye at the table before leaving without waiting for him, Yuri felt his breath speed up. He wanted one of the cigarettes his ex used to smoke as he shook on the sidewalk, hoping he had impressed her enough to keep receiving monthly checks to his mailbox. 

 

* * *

 

At home, Otabek was sitting on the couch. He turned his head to look at Yuri, who threw his things on the floor. Otabek was expressionless, as usual. Even during important moments, winning medals, giving interviews, blowing Yuri a few days ago, he didn’t show his thoughts on his face much. 

Yuri had done his best to earn to read him. An eyebrow twitch, a half smile, a shrug - they all meant something in Otabek’s language. But even Yuri, who was fluent, had no clue where to start sometimes. 

“Hey.” Otabek grunted. Yuri didn’t know what that meant. 

“Yeah. Hey.” Yuri responded. 

Otabek offered nothing as a follow-up and Yuri wanted to scream again. Somehow, Otabek’s stare was just as magnifying as Natalia Mikhailovna’s. Different context, same impossible-to-read and unknowable-motivation darkness. 

“So my meeting was fine, thanks for asking.” Yuri said. He walked around to stand in front of the couch. He was angry, more than he probably should be, but he couldn’t choke it down any longer. His face flushed as he looked down at Otabek on the couch. His tiny furrow probably meant confusion, or sorrow, but Yuri wasn’t in the right mind to play guessing games. 

“Natalia Mikhailovna asked me a bunch of shit and didn’t tell me anything. I have no clue if the Kremlin still wants me, which is great, and nice, and not awful.” 

Otabek looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Yura.” 

“It’s not your fucking fault,” Yuri said as he yanked off his tie. “Let’s just go for our run. I’m all amped up.” 

“Alright.” Otabek’s voice was soft and he walked away quietly. Yuri stormed into his own room and had to step over all of Otabek’s things to get at his own clothes. In such a short time they had become commingled. Part of it pissed Yuri off, the idea that someone could obtain so much of him so fast. Then again, part of it made Yuri so happy he could puke. 

But they were in a fight right now, so it pissed him off again. 

They walked down the hallway of Yuri’s apartment building not talking or touching. They stretched on the sidewalk in silence. Yuri’s only words were, “It’s eight kilometers away.” in reference to the park they were headed towards. The run, all forty-five minutes of it, was quiet except for the sound of their loud breath and the pat of their shoes on the sidewalk. 

The city rose and fell around them as they headed northeast to the park. There were houses out this way, and big empty spaces, and old buildings. The sidewalks cracked the further they got out, as if the city itself cared less the farther you got from the center of it. Slowly, the concrete became trees and the paved road ended, hitting sidewalk, and then becoming a muddy path into the forest. 

Yuri stepped into the park and slowed to a halt. He panted and stretched upwards to the sun while Otabek pulled up behind him and hunched over. They breathed in tandem for a moment before Yuri began to count out stretches. He counted slowly, deliberately, and enjoyed the burn of his muscles and the sweat on his brow, as if he could quite literally work his problems out of his brain. So often it was only through exercise that he got some damn peace and quiet in his own head. 

They walked, slowly, into the woods, as their sweat dried cold on their backs. It was a hot day for Russia but here warm wasn’t that warm at the end of the day. Yuri zipped up his warm-up as they got deeper into the cool forest. 

Here, in the woods, the sunlight didn’t come through in beams or strands. It splotched through, like dye in a glass of water. Yuri led them through spots of sun as he followed little blue paint marks on trees that marked the path they were on. His thoughts circled in his head the more they walked, like he couldn’t move on. Otabek - Natalia Mikhailovna - Otabek - money - skating - Otabek. 

Yuri could no longer see the position of the sun for the dense forest. The path split, and he stopped, and turned to look at Otabek who had been walking quietly behind him. 

Otabek stood neutrally, with no expression, and opened his mouth to speak. 

“I think we’re on the wrong path.” 


	11. A Forest (Til the End)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek squinted at Yuri, backlit by the speckled sun coming through the trees. He wanted to laugh.

Otabek cleared his throat and spoke again. “I mean, I think we’re lost.”

He watched as Yuri looked around, craning his neck down all three paths available to them. 

“Nah, it should be fine. Let’s go this way.” Yuri nodded, pointing to the rightmost path at the intersection. 

Otabek half turned and gestured down from where they had just walked. “Why don’t we just go back to where we came from?”

“I know what I’m doing,” Yuri said, turning down the path and walking away without waiting for Otabek to agree with him. Otabek chased after Yuri and, for a while, they walked in silence again. Otabek felt uneasy as they ventured deeper into the woods but this was Yuri’s city, Yuri’s park (Yuri’s life), so presumably he was right - he should have known what he was doing. 

The forest seemed to absorb all the daylight. Even as time passed nothing changed for them, save a slow and steady drop in the temperature. The sky was still bright where it was visible. Otabek cast his gaze upwards and wondered how it was possible that time had slowed to a standstill as they walked. 

To his right, a pond shimmered in the afternoon light. On his left, Yuri stared straight ahead. Normally he would be talking about something. Yuri was rarely quiet, especially for this long, unless something was under his skin.The last time he had been this quiet, in Otabek’s memory, was when he was in the hospital waiting room after Ded got sick three summers ago. Even when JJ, or Victor, or Yuuri annoyed Yuri he talked about it. Yuri’s silence put Otabek even more on edge than he would be only being lost. He’d been on the receiving end of a Yuri-Explosion before and he wasn’t quite in the mood for one again, and he could see Yuri tick-tick-ticking right next to him. 

“What are you thinking about?” Otabek asked. He spoke quietly, not wanting to spook Yuri too much. 

“You, asshole.” Yuri’s cheeks were pink and he still wasn’t looking at Otabek. Instead, he tried to speed up, like he wanted to escape the situation he had found himself in. Lost in a forest and trapped with his in-a-fight boyfriend. 

“If this is about last night - “

“Of course it’s about last night! And the whole week, actually.” Yuri stopped and turned to finally look Otabek full in the face. Yuri ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “I’m really fucking mad.”

Otabek frowned, looking at his boy’s face. “I know.” 

Yuri’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, silently, while he looked for words. He threw his hands up in the air and looked, for a moment, like a fish gasping for breath. 

“If you fucking know why haven’t you fucking said anything?” He half yelled. 

Otabek glanced to the ground. He wasn’t sure how he would explain himself to Yuri. While Yuri was away he had been thinking, going over their night time and time again, trying to figure out exactly what had happened to make him say something so stupid. In his hours of loneliness he hadn’t come up with much, though he wasn’t surprised - after all, fifty-nine hours of driving had given him nothing more than, ‘ _ I have feelings for you _ ’.

“Well,” Otabek started, feeling tentative. “I haven’t figured out how to fix it.” 

Yuri turned on his heel and looked down the path they were headed. And then he turned back and stared at Otabek. His mouth was open again. His face was red. 

“How about SORRY? How about just apologizing? Otabek, you always just drop these bombs and walk away. Soldier eyes, saying you have feelings for me, asking me that dumb fucking question - everything’s this huge plan to you and then you don’t fucking do anything about it!” 

Yuri, with his hands in the air, walked down the path he had chosen. Otabek chased after him. A bitter taste was in his mouth. A ‘sorry’ wouldn’t be good enough to fix the problem he had made, and he knew it. But hearing Yuri shout his request made Otabek quake. Maybe he should have started there anyway. 

Otabek reached out and forced Yuri to turn to look at him. 

“I’m sorry.” His breath was short and quick and his words came out stuttering, like he was struggling to keep his head above water. The way Yuri’s eyes looked, that’s how he felt - like drowning. 

Yuri pulled out of his grasp and kept walking. 

“You know, I don’t have a lot of experience dating, but I do know people are supposed to talk to each other. You’re not very good at that. You don’t say much, Altin.” 

“I say what I mean.” Otabek replied. The ground squelched underneath them as they walked down the path next to the pond. The water must have seeped out of the bounds, infecting everything with dampness. 

“Yeah, well, sometimes I think there are gaps in what you think and what you say. I fucking like you because of who you are. I like you because you don’t ask for anything from me, unlike everyone else. You don’t ask for perfection or medals or money, you just wanted my time. Don’t change that part, and we’ll be fucking Gucci.” 

“Part of me is that I want to actually fix my problems, not just say sorry and hope for the best.” Otabek continued. He had stopped again, irritated. He didn’t understand Yuri’s anger, his shift in expression. This had gone beyond a blunder in the bedroom, now. Yuri was mad - really mad - the likes of which Otabek had only seen once or twice, and never in his life had it been directed at him. 

Yuri said Otabek had gaps in his communication, well, Yuri had them too. 

Yuri, still with his hands thrown in the air, walked backwards down the path. He stared at Otabek as he spoke.

“But why is this a problem in the first place? I don’t understand what’s going through your head, fucking ever.” 

Otabek’s irritation doubled. “I thought you liked that about me. That’s why we get along so well.”

“Beka! Are you kidding me? Yes, it’s fine most of the time, but when you just say or do these big things and let me alone to figure everything out alone, it fucking sucks! It’s confusing.” Yuri stepped into a patch of light, and continued. “Like...come on, when you told me you had been chasing after me for five years and then asked me to be my friend and then left Barcelona without getting my phone number so I had to track you down on fucking Instagram, it was confusing. I’m at that level of confused right now.” 

Otabek walked forward and met Yuri in the light. “I didn’t want to push.” 

“But you  _ did,  _ because you weren’t explaining yourself fully _.  _ All I want is for us to talk about the big things. I feel like that’s doable. We can talk about my sex life if you want. We should talk about your feelings if I want. Can we at least start there?” 

Yuri looked down at him, sunlight in his hair. The air was cold, and Otabek shivered as he realized where he had gone wrong. 

“Yeah.” He breathed. 

Yuri spoke as he walked ahead, towards what had to have been the end of the forest for how long they had been walking. “What do you want out of this relationship?”

“You.” Otabek was confused by the questions. What else would he want? Shouldn’t it be obvious to Yuri, the boy he had spent every waking moment agonizing over for the last two weeks, no, the last year, or maybe ten years? What else was there to want but Yuri? 

Yuri stopped in his tracks once again. The constant starting and restarting was beginning to make Otabek’s legs burn. He wanted to be out of the damned time suck forest already. 

“But like, how do you want to do it? It’s gonna be long distance! And, is it serious for you? All you’ve said this whole time is,’ Yuri dropped his voice in a poor imitation of Otabek’s Russian-with-a-Kazkh-accent voice, ‘I have feelings for you.”

“I do.”

“But what ARE those feelings?” Yuri asked with his hands on his hips. The way he stood on the path, in the center of the dirt road blocking Otabek’s progress, made him feel more wall than boyfriend. Otabek was sure if he tried to skirt around Yuri he would reach out and wrestle him to the ground, allowing no passage until he gave the correct answer. Some kind of bastard riddle sphinx. 

“I…” Otabek started. Put on the spot his mouth became very dry. He tried to swallow but all he could see was Yuri’s determined glare, the kind that made him want to run and hide. The forest seemed very cold, all of the sudden, like the warmth had been pulled out of himself and not just the air. He didn’t know how to answer. 

Otabek loved Yuri. That was a known fact. Even Yuri could count on that, but friendship, platonic love, wasn’t the question here. What did Otabek feel, right then and there on the muddy path in Saint Petersburg? 

“I’m afraid.” An admittance, not a revelation, but still Otabek’s world changed a little bit with such a tiny about of breath lost. 

Yuri’s face fell in pieces - his mouth dropped open, and his eyebrows pulled together, low, and his hands came downwards too. He made himself smaller and already Otabek could feel regret at his choice of phrasing. He started, but Yuri cut him off. 

“You’re afraid of me?” Yuri spoke quietly, like he didn’t want to scare Otabek even further. 

Otabek put his hands up, defensive. “I’m afraid of losing you to this. I don’t want to get closer just to have us end up broken up or hating each other. I don’t want to push so hard you leave.” 

Yuri stepped up to Otabek, getting close enough to lean in and kiss if he wanted to, but he didn’t. Otabek could still swear he felt Yuri’s breath somehow. Maybe he was just thinking too much. 

“I think I know what the problem is.” Yuri said. 

Otabek raised an eyebrow, not wanting to speak. His words had already betrayed him once and his first and foremost defense mechanism was unreadability, even against Yuri, who could always guess him right. 

Yuri looked Otabek in the eye as he spoke. “You’re already thinking about the future. You’re moving too fast.” 

A week-long bike trip flashed through Otabek’s mind, chosen over a three-hour flight.

“Too fast?” he asked with disbelief tinging his voice. 

“Yeah,” Yuri continued. “Let’s just move at our own pace and, I guess, see what happens.” 

Otabek squinted at Yuri, backlit by the speckled sun coming through the trees. He wanted to laugh. Never once in his life had Otabek Altin been told he moved too fast. Did he work too hard, yes. Did he do too much at once, sure. Did he go too fast? Never. Days, weeks, years had passed between their first meeting, then their second-first meeting, their friendship, and now this - it had been painfully slow. It dragged. Here in a forest where he couldn’t tell the time to be told he needed to slow down even further made Otabek want to double over in laughter. 

So he said so. “It took me a week just to gather the courage to confess, and you say I’m going too fast?” 

Yuri, determined, stood his ground. “Yes. Too fast.” His surety was as steadfast as always, Yuri who never doubted himself, made Otabek wish for one tiny percentage of the same courage. 

“...Prove it.” Otabek felt a smile on his face at the relief of at least coming to any conclusion, even if he wasn’t sure it was the right one. They had something to work with, at least. 

“Let’s take our time.” Yuri said. He offered his hand forward and Otabek grabbed it, not in a handshake like Barcelona, but interlacing their fingers with enough pressure to feel almost too tight. 

Outside of the forest the air was warmer, but Otabek still wanted to get to Yuri’s house. 

 

* * *

 

After, Yuri planned to sleep on the inside. He said it was fair. The mattress bowed under their weight as they sat down together, before Yuri’s hand crept over to Otabek’s, asking a question with the way he stroked and pulled and touched. Maybe he was sad, or just worn out from the run and the fights. Down in the bed together Otabek was aware of the distance between them but instead of trying to push them together he stayed still, figuring that’s what Yuri wanted. 

Over the week and a half Otabek had spent in Yuri’s company, he had made quite a few realizations. One, that he was ruminating on now, was what it meant to be close to someone. He had been close with many people in the past. Ex-lovers, old friends, his family, his peers, his coach. But being close like this, not touching but instead comfortably occupying each other’s space, was different. 

Otabek hated, a little bit, about how everything Yuri did was different. He saw things different and skated different and looked different. It was jarring for Otabek, a man set in routine, a man who took whole years to decide things, how fast and wild Yuri Plisetsky could be. How strange from his own nature only to turn around and give little snores in a mid-day nap that reminded Otabek of his littlest sister. 

Otabek wanted to bridge the gap between them. Usually when they slept (if a week and a half could even create a “usual”) their hands tended to stay connected on the bed no matter what position they found themselves in. Yuri didn’t initiate sex, but he did initiate other things, and Otabek figured that’s what Yuri meant by  _ “going too fast” _ . 

It was embarrassing to make so many realizations in one day. 

Otabek looked sideways at Yuri, asleep, and tried to tear the guards from his heart. He would need more realizations if he was ever going to make this work. 

 

* * *

 

The light changed from green to red and Yuri screeched to a halt on the bike. His boots hit the pavement to steady them and before Otabek could say anything, Yuri was already apologizing through the intercom in their helmets. 

“Sorry. I promise I am trying to take care of it.”

“You’re gonna break my heart, Plisetsky.”

“Never, Altin.”

In the morning, Yuri had taken Otabek to Yubileyny. The skating was unremarkable. Typical for the first day after vacation - slow and sore and like all of Otabek’s muscles had gone to sleep. He felt weaker, more rested, smaller, more focused. It was hard to put in words. 

On the way back from the rink, though, Otabek’s engine stuttered nearly to a halt. He sighed and drove Yuri past his apartment and to a hardware store. 

“Want to learn how to change a spark plug, Yuri?” 

“Hell yeah.”

“Do you know what a spark plug is?”

“Hell no.”

They pulled into the empty garage and the change of lighting - bright summer to dim, gray concrete - made Otabek blink his eyes a little. Yuri turned off the engine and hopped down immediately, obviously eager to learn something new. He jumped from foot to foot as Otabek dug through his bag, overexcited. 

Yuri with his hands dirty was a sight Otabek savored. He had run up to Yuri’s apartment, Yuri’s keys burning in his hand, and grabbed his saddle bag of basic tools, and jogged back down the hall and the stairwell to see Yuri already trying to take a look at the engine. 

“I can’t see shit in the garage. Can we go out back in the sun?” Yuri had asked. 

“Of course.”

They walked the bike out of the garage and around the apartment into the grass behind Yuri’s building. There was an area, not quite a lawn, behind Yuri’s apartment building, where maintenance had a shed of supplies stashed. A large, overgrown and gnarled tree wrapped it’s branches around the roof of the shed. Otabek could imagine kids climbing up the knobs of the tree to sit on the roof, playing with each other. Right now, though, the back of the building was empty and quiet, every child at school and most adults at work. 

And so Yuri sat in the grass in his gym shorts, knees turning green, as he took parts out of the bike’s guts. He got motor oil on his hands that he wiped on his forehead on accident, smearing some black filth into his hair. 

Otabek guided him, explaining where to pull and where to push, what to remove and replace. All-in-all, it should only have taken five minutes, but with Yuri asking questions it took them twenty before Otabek let Yuri gun the engine to see if the problem was solved. 

“It sounds alright to me,” Yuri said, smiling over at Otabek. 

“Yeah, I think it’s fine.” 

The engine died, letting them exist in silence again. 

Birds in the tree chirped, and a car drove past the apartment building, heard but not seen. 

They both sat, shoulder to shoulder, next to the bike on its kickstand. Otabek took a deep breath, calming himself against some tension he couldn’t identify. Something anxious, something nostalgic, something terrified and calm all at once. He closed his eyes and felt the grass under his palms and didn’t jump when Yuri kissed him, sweetly, on his mouth. 

Their hands met in the grass. Yuri climbed into Otabek’s lap. They sat like that for a while, together, in the sun, softly mooning over one another. If Otabek could spend the rest of his days like that, too-tall boyfriend in his lap, he would die a happy man. Part of him was surprised by Yuri’s tendency to be gentle, to run his hands through his hair, or caress his face, but he reminded himself of how Yuri treated Potya, and Grandpa, and the little Juniors at the rink when they weren’t bothering him. A city lived inside Yuri, one he thought he knew the map of. He was lost.  

Otabek pulled back from Yuri’s touches. He wanted so badly to tell him what he was beginning to figure out -  _ “I think maybe I’m in love with you, and that makes me jealous. But I think also I don’t know you, and that makes me scared.” _ \- but he had no words to describe what he was feeling. After all this time, sitting in the grass while Yuri got motor oil on the back of his neck, he was still as clueless as ever. 

Yuri shifted his head and kissed Otabek’s neck. 

_ “Oh, are we going there?”  _ Otabek asked himself.

Yuri squirmed in Otabek’s lap, no doubt trying to gain a certain kind of reaction, and bit marks into Otabek’s neck. He tried not to make too much noise out in the open, where anyone could see, but one or two whispers escaped him. 

Yuri scrambled, looming above Otabek, and hauled him up. 

“Sit.” He said, pushing Otabek down onto the bike. “Actually, stand up,” Yuri said. He lifted Otabek again and put his hands on Otabek’s fly, quickly unzipping him. Yuri yanked Otabek’s pants down, just enough to free his ass and his dick. 

“Now you can sit,” Yuri said, pushing Otabek down again. 

“We’re outside…?” Otabek began. He felt uncomfortable so exposed. But he also very much wanted to continue Yuri’s train of thought. He gripped his bike seat hard and watched Yuri sink down to his knees. Yeah, maybe this was fine. 

Yuri clearly knew what he was doing. He was confident, and smart, and figured out what Otabek liked quickly enough. More than that, his eyes kept flicking upward for encouragement, or to have a laugh, or to ask a question, all with just a glimmer and a quirk of his eyebrow. Otabek still maintained that he had the eyes of a soldier, but in something that wasn’t a fight, they softened, and Otabek felt weak. 

The heat from the sun pressed onto his shoulders and the heat from inside him burned outwards, and it didn’t take that long for him to finish with a terrible little grunt and a hand in Yuri’s hair, probably too rough, but there anyway. 

Yuri pulled away and Otabek could see his own come dribble out of Yuri’s mouth before he spat in the grass. 

He smiled up at Otabek. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

 

* * *

 

No single moment could prepare Otabek for how he felt on the morning of the final day of their vacation together. No memory was powerful enough to erase the dread of rolling out of Yuri’s bed and putting his feet on the floor, when they would inevitably have to carry him out the door and to the airport. Instead, he pushed the feeling down and rolled into Yuri’s side. Yuri was warm, and solid, a light sleeper who tended to press back into Otabek once they both woke up. 

There was no difference this morning than the other mornings save for Otabek’s internal struggle. The sun rose the same, the fan was still humming in the corner, and Potya was curled up between their legs just as usual. 

Yuri pressed a kiss to Otabek’s temple. He said, “don’t leave” without having to open his mouth. Otabek kissed back.

“I wish I could stay.”

They lay there for a while, breathing the same air. 

It was the sun through Yuri’s window that forced them to move - it shone too hot through the glass, like a greenhouse pane, burning their skin. Or maybe that was just the energy of being together, Otabek wondered, for he certainly still felt warm even as they walked through the kitchen, and living room, and even in the shower they shared together. 

Yuri pressed his fingers into Otabek’s hips as they got clean. He knelt and took Otabek in his mouth, which wasn’t surprising now but certainly shocked him in a certain kind of way. He didn’t take long to finish but Yuri didn’t make fun of him. Just rose and wiped his mouth in a way that made Otabek get kind-of-hard again. He returned the favor, looking up at Yuri the whole way through. 

“We have to leave in about an hour, Beka.” Yuri murmured from the kitchen. He got visibly more defeated the more time passed and Otabek wished he had something better to say than, “I know, Yura.” He couldn’t change the passage of time. He could only exist within it, and do his best to make every moment worthwhile. With Yuri, he realized, sometimes that meant standing still and not worrying so goddamn much. With Yuri, he realized, even standing could be worthwhile. 

Otabek packed up most of his things, sure he was leaving something behind, but not caring too much to press it. He could get whatever forgotten shirt the next time they saw each other, at the Prix qualifiers, or some other stolen moment when they crossed international paths in an airport. 

In the future, years from now, holding Yuri’s hand would feel like security, the safest place Otabek could imagine. He would think about rings, and houses, and what to do once their knees gave out and they retired at 32, precisely one year after Viktor, just to spite him. Now, though, holding Yuri’s hand was a terrible burden Otabek wasn’t sure how to carry. He was scared, mostly, shaking in his boots like a novice skater at their first competition. He shook as they walked out to the bike, and as he tossed Yuri the keys for the final time. He wrapped his arms around Yuri tight enough to hurt them both, though neither of them said a word. 

Yuri drove achingly slow. He stopped at every yellow, not just the reds. He let children pass. He got lost on purpose. Otabek knew when Yuri was stalling in general and he could sense it now out on the highway. 

Part of him missed the idiotic calm of his trip to Lake Balkhash, where he drove past blue waters for hours, all unchanging and unchallenging. Now, he swam in a different kind of way - in the gray concrete of Saint Petersburg he floated along, kept steady only by Yuri’s confident and consistent speed. Yeah, this was the right pace, he decided. Exactly the speed Yuri wanted to go. 

Otabek pressed the forehead of his helmet into Yuri’s back. He was so tall now. 

Otabek blocked out the airport parking lot even as he walked through it, pushing his bike as he and Yuri crossed silently. They both stood straight and walked side by side as if they were still in the forest from days ago trying to argue their sides of the coin. Now, though, Otabek was painfully aware of the passage of time. Every step marked their goodbye. 

They reached the entrance to the terminal. Yuri broke first. 

“You have your paperwork?” He asked for the thousandth time. Although Otabek had driven to Russia he wasn’t about to get on the bike for longer than a few minutes in a long time, not when the memory of his jeans pressing red lines into his thighs was still so fresh. Instead, he would ship his bike and be home in three hours once his flight took off.

_ “There’s a metaphor in there somewhere. A week to get here, a few hours to leave.”  _ Otabek thought as he looked at Yuri.

An idea flashed through his brain as Yuri laid his hand on the handle bar of the bike. 

“Yeah. I have the papers here,” Otabek said and pulled his official shipping instructions out of his bag. A plane took off somewhere to their left and in the noise and and the wind Otabek opened his hand and let the loose papers fly across the parking lot. In just a second, they were long gone. 

Yuri stood stunned but Otabek laughed. “I want you to have it,” he said through his smile. 

“The bike?” Yuri’s eyes popped wide open behind his sunglasses, but Otabek could tell because he had become very in-tune with Yuri’s expressions these days. This particular one was being filed away for future use, right next to the face he made when he laughed, or when he came all over himself. 

“Listen, it’s still mine. But I want you to take care of it, okay?” 

Yuri gaped at him, wordless. 

“You have to get your license, but I trust you,” Otabek continued. 

A plane roared to life on their right just as Yuri started to speak. The wind made his hair, previously down at his shoulders, blow over his face. A memory of fifteen year-old Yuri flashed in Otabek’s mind, back in Barcelona, and he smiled again. Maybe they would be apart, marking time in two different time zones, trying to run at different speeds and needed to circle back to one another, but they already knew how to do that. They had history and now, Otabek felt sure, they had time. 

“I got you,” Yuri said before pressing his mouth to Otabek’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll probably have noticed that the chapter count has gone up. This is the end of the story, but there will be a bonus chapter in a few weeks. I'm moving and having some issues at work, but stay subscribed! I'll be back. 
> 
> Love you!!
> 
> tumblr/twitter @softieghost


	12. Rhythm (For All Time)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, finding the rhythm was hard for them. But when they both had their guard down they met on a stable plane.

Yuri sat, drumming his fingers against the old light-wash wood. He had shoved his things (assorted papers, textbooks, dogeared novels, and two precious photographs, among other detritus) to the side to make room for his laptop, at which he was now staring. Otabek was supposed to call ten minutes ago when he got in from training.Maybe traffic was bad. Maybe Otabek was breaking up with him.

“Shut up, asshole.” Yuri muttered to himself.

Katsuki had told him that sometimes it was helpful to talk to his anxiety like it was another person, but so far he had just ended up with a bad habit of talking to himself and not really feeling any better at the end of the day.

Potya’s tail flicked. She was settled behind his laptop and her little paws would sometimes curl around the screen. It used to be cute but now, on this particular day, which would have been normal if not for a gross little idea-cum (heh)-plan he had, Yuri wasn’t thrilled at the idea of Potya watching him do what he was about to do. That was, if Otabek fucking called him.

His nails continued to tap against the wood of his desk as he waited.

By the time his laptop let out the ringing tone of a video call, Yuri had buried his nose in Anna Karenina, which he had read a few times before, but still needed to read for class. He could quote it easily, and he knew all the symbolism, but still he had two write and essay. It really pissed him off.

Otabek looked flushed when he sat down. His white t-shirt was clearly damp, which Yuri would have previously been upset about - his friend being uncomfortable - had he not recently entered into a romantic and sexual relationship with said friend. Boyfriend. Whatever.

“Sorry, Yura, it’s raining. Driving was shit.” Otabek huffed as he stretched his arms over his head.

He looked good. Well, he always looked good, he was a handsome man, but he looked especially good right now, kinda wet and flushed and pushing his hair out of eyes. He was like some kind of male model. Yuri realized he was allowed to say as much.

“You look like some kinda shampoo model when you’re all wet.” Ah, yes, Plisetsky, good job at normal human interaction as always.

“...Thanks?”

“Nice.” Yuri said to himself out loud.

“...What?” Otabek looked confused.

“Uh.” Damn it to hell, Plisetsky, you dumb fuck. “Nevermind. How was the rink?”

Otabek pushed back his chair onto the back two legs and closed his eyes. He looked almost serene, except for the downwards twitch of his mouth, indicating in the subtlest ways the ultimate dissatisfaction of Otabek Altin with himself. He tended to be his hardest critic, which Yuri hated, because Otabek deserved all the niceties in the world, but Yuri also understood, seeing as he himself was a little gremlin, not that Otabek would agree. See? They were even.

Having a conversation with Otabek could sometimes be an exercise in reading between the lines. Good think Yuri was a fucking lit major, huh? He didn’t speak much but when he did it was often overthought and overworked. Yuri thought about how Otabek had told him he “had feelings” three weeks ago, only to overturn that and describe his feelings as both fear and love a week after. Otabek wasn’t great with words. He was more of an action kinda man.

His actions, now, keeping his eyes closed, grimacing, keeping the lights off, described to Yuri that his day hadn’t been “okay”, like Otabek said, but it had been disastrous. Otabek probably had bruises up and down his body from fucking up his new free that he was excited about but still unwilling to perform in its completion for anyone other than his coach no matter how much Yuri begged. Otabek had also seen his parents today with a promise of telling them about their relationship.

Yuri didn’t need to ask to know it didn’t go well.

He wished more than ever he could reach through the screen and cup Otabek’s cheek and make his day better. Instead, all he had was Active Listening Skills and a smile to offer his boyfriend.

And a little plan.

As Otabek sighed through the end of his day, Yuri shifted in his seat.

“Listen, Beka, I want to do something nice for you,” Yuri started. “Can we try something?”

Otabek’s eyebrows lifted.

“What?”

Yuri cleared his throat. Where Otabek was short and sweet (pun very much intended) Yuri could be a little more...well, Lilia called it crass but he liked to think of himself as aggressively poetic, welcome-to-the-madness, racing stripe romantic.

“I was thinking we could, like, jerk off together. It’ll be like a bonding thing and also it’ll be more fun to do it together than alone.”

Otabek looked taken aback for a moment before he laughed. God damn that laugh straight to hell, Yuri decided, for how nice it was. Like an angel or some garbage.

They had had The Talk already. Finally. What they wanted (mutual love and respect, gross) and their previous lovers (numerous yet uneventful, with few exceptions, on both their parts). It had been mostly painful and very awkward but they had both left the video call feeling lighter and more focused. The feeling of easy queasy hadn’t left Yuri’s stomach yet. He had Otabek’s heart to take care of, now, and he had no idea how to do that.

Otabek cleared his throat. “Right now?”

“I mean, not necessarily, but I was thinking…” Yuri floundered. Yeah, he had been thinking about mutual virtual masturbation with his boyfriend and no that wasn’t embarrassing at all to admit. It wasn’t embarrassing because they were adults who cared for each other and had already had a mature conversation about sex. Yuri wasn’t embarrassed.

“I’ve been thinking too, you know.” Otabek smiled as he spoke. He smiled as he adjusted enough to pull his pants off without standing all the way up.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Jeez, Altin, why’d you make me wait, then?” Yuri’s hands pricked with nervous-sexy sweat. That was an emotion now. Nervous-sexy. Yuri was nervous-sexy and decided not to worry about it too much. Instead, he pulled his gym shorts off, too, and sat back down on the hardwood of his chair. Lilia didn’t believe in comfortable things and Yuri had adopted much of that, refusing to get a nicer desk chair even if it would be “good for his back” or whatever the fuck.

Otabek shifted his camera so Yuri could see his lap. Nothing but his lap. He felt his face heat up as he stared. Otabek was...nice to look at. All over.

“Uh, maybe I can see your face, too?” Yuri spluttered as he looked at Otabek’s lap. His mouth watered.

Otabek adjusted the camera again. Now, Yuri could see the bottom half of Otabek’s face, all of his torso, and most of his lap, but not much else.

“I mean, yeah, that’s better. Lots of stomach…” Yuri said. It was a nice stomach to be fair, hard and strong, perfect for laying his head against or holding when they drove. A good big spoon stomach, even if Otabek was the short one. But it wasn’t his face.

Otabek scooted backwards and twisted himself around trying to get everything in the frame. Somehow, Yuri was reminded of Potya, now long gone from behind his laptop, curled and contorted belly-up in the sun.

Yuri stifled a laugh as Otabek groaned at him. “Can you do any better?”

Yuri sat back and angled his camera down ever so slightly. His frame was instantly perfect only because he had practiced before the call started. He knew what he wanted and what he wanted was to do something nice with his boyfriend.

Otabek smiled at Yuri as he settled in his chair.

“You look nice, Yura.” Otabek’s voice was low. He sounded like he did back when they tried to have sex. Like when he took Yuri in his mouth and worshipped him.

“Yeah, you too, Beka.”

Otabek’s hands were loose on his thighs, relaxed, not nervous or even nervous-sexy. Just easy, and Yuri wished he was there, holding them (or that he was easy, too). Otabek’s hands always felt nice on him no matter where they were - in his own hands, on the small of his back, low down on his stomach as they spooned, wrapped around his cock, running through his hair.

Longing punctured the sexy air he was trying to conjure.

“Let me see you, Yura.” Otabek prompted, startling Yuri out of his stillness. Yuri shoved his shorts down, looking at how the gray, ratty fabric both pooled and stretched at his knees, changing shape as he adjusted himself. He looked down, no doubt giving himself a double-chin or showing off how crooked his nose was, and saw himself resting against his belly.

He had never thought about what his own cock looked like. Now, he was self-conscious of it. His face got red, nervous-sexy, as he wondered if Otabek liked it. Otabek had seen it before, and never mentioned it, did he hate it? Was it too small? Was -

“Yuri, stop it.” This he managed to keep inside his brain.

He looked up at Otabek, meeting his gaze with what he hoped was equal intensity. Then again there was little in the world as intense as Otabek Altin, even when he was soft (again, come on, pun intended).

“Uh...let’s do it?” Otabek sounded suddenly awkward. Maybe this was something he hadn’t done before, either. That made Yuri feel even more nervous-sexy than he already did. When they decided to date they had already done all the firsts people care about. Kisses, oral, anal, gold medals. But this would be a real first for both of the that they could share and ruin together. Yuri knew firsts were often learning experiences but that didn’t mean he didn’t want this to be special.

Otabek got lube in his hand and started. Yuri took a moment to follow. All he had was lotion anymore, proving Otabek to be the more responsible one. Oh well. Yuri’s was vanilla scented, which was a win, he supposed.

Otabek’s voice was low and smooth as he spoke, “Aren’t you gonna…?”

Yuri snapped back to reality for the one hundredth time that night. There was gonna be whiplash soon.

He wrapped his hand around himself, feeling his own weight. Having spent many years, at this point, familiarizing himself with his own fun bits, he didn’t always pay a lot of attention to what it really felt like. Masturbating could sometimes (often) be perfunctory. He jerked it when he was tired, or bored, or angry. Frustrated. Sad. Yuri Plisetsky had jerked it to many emotions in his less-than two decades. “Maybe don’t mention that to anyone ever.” Yuri thought to himself.

Now, though, he supposed he should take care and be thorough. He wanted it to be special which meant he probably should have had a more detailed and romantic plan that “whip your dick out over video chat”. He could have sent some damn flowers or the special edition of Otabek’s favorite video game.

Too late for that, he surmised. All he could do was try and think lovely thoughts and hope Otabek felt them.

Was he supposed to think about Otabek?

Otabek was nice to think about. He was handsome - a spark went up his back - and kind - his hand had warmed up through the lotion now - and strong and silent like any self-respecting Macho Man. And damn, he was handsome. Yuri thought that a lot.

Yuri studied his partner as he felt himself up. Otabek’s eyebrows were close together, his eyes half lidded. His bicep was spectacular and he pulled at his own cock, alone, in his computer chair.

Yuri was attracted to him, for sure, but he also realized that masturbating was kind of humiliating.

“Why did you stop?” Otabek asked. He looked concerned, like maybe Yuri was having second (thousandth) thoughts. He set his hands back down on his legs but his dick was still right there, pointing up and out and shiney with lube and precome. His face was so concerned, and his dick was so hard.

Yuri scratched his head (getting lotion in his damn hair, fucking idiot), and took a breath.

“I was just more interested in watching you, I guess.”

Otabek tilted his head to the left, curious instead of concerned. He smiled a wicked, mischievous smile, and Yuri started to consider the L-word.

“You wanna watch?” Otabek’s hand crept back towards himself. “Wanna see me?” He said the same thing twice - double the amount of needed words so damn, he must be serious.

“Yes.” Yuri’s mouth was dry.

Once again, Yuri was forced-slash-given the pleasure of taking in the glory of the Altin household, many of their name. His particular Altin was strong. His hand was veiny and tanned from the remnants of Summer that clung onto Fall. His fingers were a little short, but in a manly way. And his dick….well, if Yuri wasn’t gay already that dick would have turned him.

Every time Otabek stroked his stomach fluttered.

“Talk to me.” Yuri muttered.

“I wish this was your hand.” Otabek responded. Yeah, that was nice to hear. “Your hands are nice.” Okay, still nice, if a little lame. “I wanna feel you again, Yura.” Oh, the nickname…

“Keep going.” Yuri commanded. He liked being in charge, a little. “Keep talking.”

Otabek sped up. “I wish we could have fucked when I was there. I keep wondering what you sound like.”

Yuri moaned into the microphone on his headphones, dangling from his ears. He hoped to god it sounded sexy. “I can’t wait, Beka. Maybe I’ll come down there so we can do it. It’s been a while since I’ve been to Almaty.”

Otabek closed his eyes and pressed his mouth together, done talking for the moment. The only sound was the shk-shk of skin against skin and the squelch of lube and oh god, yeah, that was gross, Yuri needed to keep talking.

“I want to fuck you, Beka.”

Otabek opened his eyes.

“You top?”

Yuri chose, in that moment, to forgive.

“Yes. I can, will, and want to.”

“You’re not even jerking off anymore.” Otabek had stopped, too, the asshole. He was pretty, even when there was something bothering him. “I want to do this together.”

Yuri swallowed, and began to touch himself too. What he wanted was to watch. He wanted to watch and taste and touch. He wasn’t concerned about himself in that moment, anymore, but if he needed to play along in order to get to watch, he would.

Otabek stared at Yuri’s fist, moving up and down, and Yuri, too, stared at Otabek. Even through the distance, and the time zones, and, really, the language barrier than still cropped up when arguing about slang, or grammar, they watched each other. It started to feel nice, to be watched like that, after a while. He wasn’t one for a show (ironically), not in the bedroom where emotions got too confused with sweat and pleasure (ice was a different kind of sweat and pleasure that cultivated showmanship, just trust him), but he could show for Otabek.

Trust, he supposed, made it possible.

He considered the L-word, he knew the T-word. That was okay for now. Trust made it bearable to expose himself.

Otabek came first. His stomach clenched and Yuri saw white ooze from the top of his fist, the same color as Otabek’s teeth showing in his mouth agape (yes, a pun, if only working when written). In the static of the camera everything glittered and fuzzed and, oh, he was really warm now.

“Come on…,” Otabek murmured. He licked his hand. Nasty. Yuri groaned from how much he liked the nasty part of Otabek.

Yuri came. It was good. He panted, and the cold air was better.

He trusted Otabek, which meant he trusted him with not just his physical exposure, seen in the shadows of the dim Russian evening and the black Kazakhstani night, but also with his live, beating heart. He had to. He had so many choices in life but this is one he had to do.

“Better next time?” He asked with a smile. The real one.

“It’s always better with you.”

Such simple words was all it took for Yuri’s heart to refuse to calm down. He cursed Otabek a lot - from his laugh, to his smile, to the way he operated and skated, but these little tiny words were the worst kind of affliction to Yuri’s fragile constitution. He couldn’t handle many of them, which made it good that Otabek spoke so little.

Sometimes, finding the rhythm was hard for them. But when they both had their guard down they met on a stable plane.

Yuri’s afterglow was more computer glow as his ego pieced itself back together. Otabek’s gentle eyes and gentler words made him stay fragile, but with his underwear back on, he was protected from further awkwardness.

“I…,” Yuri thought about the L-word. “I’m glad we could do that,” he pussed out.

Rhythm was slow going, sometimes. But that was okay when you trusted your partner.

“Me too,” Otabek smiled, honest, always. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAOW I finished it AND put in a bonus chapter. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with it, and commenting, and leaving kudos. I'm so happy you enjoyed it.

**Author's Note:**

> WOW! I started writing this about six months ago. It existed in my brain for a lot longer before that. There have been many, many drafts, and I would still be drafting were it not for @voxane and @thoughtsappear, as well as many other friends who read and encouraged along the way. I'm very grateful to them. 
> 
>  
> 
> [ spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/aspero4/playlist/6GexEPu5KOSU611rXhNGry?si=M6dpDjTMRZOnIF6UNrGaUw)


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